THE  MAN  WITH  ATHUMB 


THE 


MAN  WITH  A  THUMB 


BY 

W.    C.    HUDSON 

(BARCLA  V  NORTH) 

AUTHOR    OF    "THE    DIAMOND    BUTTON:     WHOSE  WAS    IT?' 

"JACK  GORDON,    KNIGHT   ERRANT,    GOTHAM,    1883," 

"VIVIER,    OF    VIVIER.   LONGMAN   &    CO., 

BANKERS,"  ETC.,  ETC. 


NEW  YORK 
CASSELL   PUBLISHING   COMPANY 

104   &    106    FOURTH    AVENUE 


COPYRIGHT, 

1891, 
BY  CASSELL  PUBLISHING  COMPANY. 


All  rights  reserved. 


THE    MERSHON    COMPANY   PRESS, 
RAHWAY,   N.   J. 


CONTENTS. 


CHAPTER  PAGE 

I.  "  WHY  !  IT  is  BLOOD  ! "               ,        .        .        i 

II.  A  MYSTERIOUS  TRAGEDY,         .        .        . 

III.  "How  FORTUNE  PLIES  HER  SPORTS," 

• 

IV.  THE  HEARING  EAR  AND  THE  SEEING  EYE, 

V.  LETS  IN  NEW  LIGHT  THROUGH  CHINKS, 

VI.  WEAVING  A  THEORY,        .... 

VII.  SETTING  UP  A  MAN  OF  FASHION, 

VIII.    AN  ADVENTURE 

IX.  THE  MAN  WITH  A  THUMB,  .... 

X.  BY  WAYS  UNKNOWN,        .... 

XI.  TALL,  SLIM,  WITH  BROWN  HAIR, 

XII.  NARROWING  THE  CIRCLE,         .        . 

XIII.  NEW  DISAPPOINTMENTS,       .        .        .        .133 

XIV.  LOWERING  SKIES, 146 

XV.  CRUSHING  A  REBELLION,       .        .        .        .156 

XVI.  BREAD  FOUND  AFTER  MANY  DAYS,         .         164 

XVII.  PIECING  OUT  A  STORY,          ....     177 

XVIII.  THE  STORY  PIECED  OUT,         ...         195 

XIX.  EUSTACE  IN  THE  TOILS,        .        .        .        .    204 

XX.  A  MYSTERY  REPEALED,   ....        218 

iii 


2138242 


iv  CONTENTS. 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

XXI.  AN  UNEXPECTED  TURN,        .        .        .  .     227 

XXII.  STRANGE  REVELATIONS,     ....  238 

XXIII.  A  SIGN  IT  is  OF  EVIL  LIFE,        .        .  .251 

XXIV.  CATHCART  CLOSES  HIS  BOOKS,          .        .  261 
XXV.  CONCLUSION, 265 


THE  MAN  WITH  A  THUMB. 


CHAPTER  I. 

"  WHY  !    IT    IS    BLOOD. 

OCTOBER  of  1879  and  a  brisk  evening.  The 
hour  is  nine.  People  walk  rapidly  under  the 
stimulus  of  the  cool  night  air. 

One  of  the  number,  however,  does  not.  Closely 
examining  the  buildings  on  either  side  of  the  street, 
he  moves  along  slowly.  Sometimes  he  stops  on 
the  curbstone  and  gazes  intently  at  a  house  upon 
the  opposite  side.  Thus  he  makes  slow  progress 
until  he  reaches  the  corner  of  Broadway  and  Bleecker 
Street.  Here  he  stops  and  peers  down  the  cross 
street.  Apparently  he  debates  with  himself  as  to 
which  way  he  shall  go.  Slowly  he  walks  off  in  the 
direction  of  the  Bowery  and — into  the  middle  of 
events  which  powerfully  influence  his  whole  life. 

He  was  a  tall,  athletic  man.  A  careless  observer 
would  have  said  he  was  nearly  forty.  But  he  was 
in  fact  barely  thirty-one.  The  stern,  deep-seated 
lines  of  his  face,  suggesting  settled  grief,  or  harsh 
experiences  in  life,  made  him  appear  older  than  he 
was — these,  and  an  expression  of  habitual  melan- 
choly. 


2  THE  MAN  WITH  A    THUMB. 

His  course  lay  upon  the  lower  or  south  side  of 
Bleecker  Street.  Crossing  Crosby,  he  walked  a  few 
rods  and  then  stopped  in  front  of  a  house  upon  the 
opposite  side. 

Certainly,  the  reason  lay  in  no  peculiarity  of  the 
house.  It  was  not  particularly  distinguished  from 
its  neighbors.  As  a  matter  of  fact  it  bore  a  resem- 
blance to  them  all,  for  it  was  one  of  a  row  ovf  old- 
fashioned  houses  all  built  at  the  same  time.  Though 
degraded  from  the  high  rank  they  had  once  held, 
they  had  not  lost  entirely  their  pretentions  to  dig- 
nity. Dingy  they  had  become,  but  that  air  of 
spaciousness,  so  lacking  in  our  modern  architecture, 
they  still  possessed.  In  spite  of  the  degenerate 
times  upon  which  they  had  fallen,  they  still  had  the 
power  to  force  you  to  consider  the  days  when  they 
were  prosperous  and  fashionable. 

This  particular  house  was  of  brick,  three  stories 
high  with  a  low  basement.  The  windows  of  the 
second  and  third  stories  were  ablaze  with  light,  and 
at  them  were  to  be  seen,  even  at  that  hour,  the 
occupants  of  the  rooms  they  lit,  at  work.  The  first 
or  parlor  floor  was  dark.  The  front  door,  with  its 
rounded  casement,  minutely  carved,  to  which  a 
flight  of  three  or  four  marble  steps  led,  was  wide 
open,  but  there  was  no  light  in  the  hall.  Between 
what  were  once,  at  least,  the  parlor  windows, 
fastened  to  the  brick  front  was  a  new  oval  sign, 
displaying  a  young  woman  whose  yellow  bodice 
was  very  low,  whose  blue  skirts  were  very  short, 
and  whose  red  boots  were  very  high,  dancing  upon 


"WHY!  IT  IS  BLOOD"  3 

rose-colored  clouds,  a  suggestion  of  ethereality 
utterly  destroyed  by  the  robustness  of  her  nether 
limbs  and  the  abnormal  breadth  of  her  bared  shoul- 
ders. While  she  danced  she  held  a  black  mask 
before  eyes  roguishly  but  fixedly  cast,  indiscrim- 
inately, upon  all  passers-by.  Over  her  head  were 
the  words,  "  Madame  Delamour";  under  her  feet 
the  single  one  "  Costumer.  " 

Under  these  parlor  windows,  stretching  across 
the  whole  width  of  the  house,  was  a  long,  narrow 
sign  bearing  the  words,  "  Weinhandlung." 

One  of  the  windows  of  the  basement  front  had 
been  transformed  into  a  door.  On  either  side  of 
this  door  was  a  tub  painted  green.  In  each  tub 
was  an  evergreen  tree,  slowly  turning  yellow.  The 
iron  fence  which  once  had  separated  the  sunken 
area  from  the  pavement  had  been  remoyed.  The 
light  streamed  forth  brightly  and  invitingly  from 
both  door  and  window. 

"  That  is  the  house,"  muttered  the  young  man 
on  the  other  side  of  the  street.  "  To  what  base 
uses  we  may  return,  and  so  forth.  I  have  a  fancy  to 
see  the  inside  of  it." 

Crossing  the  street  the  young  man  entered  the 
"  Weinhandlung."  Inside  he  swept  the  room  with 
his  eyes,  and  an  expression  of  astonishment  mingled 
with  disappointment  passed  over  his  face. 

To  accommodate  the  business  of  the  dispenser 
of  wines,  the  partitions  had  been  torn  out,  so  that 
the  whole  basement  floor  was  one  room.  Where 
the  hall  had  been  the  bar  was,  and  behind  the  bar 


4  THE  MAN  WITH  A    THUMB. 

a  stolid-looking  German,  smoking  a  long  pipe,  con- 
templating without  the  suggestion  of  an  expression 
upon  his  large,  round  face,  a  group  noisily  playing 
a  game  of  cards.  In  the  rear  of  the  room  were 
two  billiard  tables.  In  the  corner  on  the  left  as 
one  entered  was  a  round  table  at  which  there  were 
four  chairs  and  on  it  several  newspapers. 

The  young  man  sat  himself  at  this  table,  taking 
the  chair  in  the  corner,  which,  while  it  secured  him 
comparative  privacy,  enabled  him  to  command  the 
room  at  a  glance.  At  one  of  the  small  tables  in  the 
middle  of  the  room,  and  in  close  proximity  to  the 
card-players,  sat  an  old  gentleman,  perhaps  seventy, 
deeply  engrossed  in  his  newspaper.  As  the  young 
man  entered  he  lifted  his  head.  Something  in  the 
new-comer's  appearance  arrested  his  attention.  He 
laid  his  paper  upon  his  knees  and  followed  the 
young  man  with  his  eyes,  and  his  face  took  on  an 
expression  of  perplexity.  Though  he  resumed 
reading,  his  eyes  ever  and  anon  wandered  to  the 
young  man  in  the  corner.  Soon  his  paper  lost 
interest  for  him,  for  he  again  laid  it  on  his  knees  and 
looked  into  space  over  his  spectacles,  without  losing 
his  thoughtful,  perplexed  expression. 

The  young  man  summoned-  the  stolid  proprietor 
and  ordered  a  stoup  of  wine  and  a  cigar.  His 
orders  complied  with,  he  struck  a  match,  and  as  he 
held  it  up  in  the  air  with  his  right  hand,  until  the 
sulphur  should  have  burned  away,  he  held  his  cigar 
within  an  inch  of  his  lips  with  his  left  hand.  The 
old  gentleman,  watching  him  covertly,  smiled ; 


"WHY !  IT  IS  BLOOD."  5 

the  wrinkles  on  his  brow  vanished,  the  perplexed 
expression  passed  away,  and  nodding  to  himself 
approvingly,  he  returned  to  his  paper.  By-and-bye 
he  beckoned  to  the  proprietor,  and  by  a  gesture 
indicated  that  he  desired  the  empty  glass  at  his 
elbow  refilled.  An  unusually  loud  outburst  came 
from  the  card-players  ;  with  a  smothered  exclama- 
tion of  disgust,  he  picked  up  his  glass  and  crossed 
to  the  table  at  which  the  young  man  was  sitting, 
saying  politely: 

"  Shall  I  be  intruding  if  I  seat  myself  at  this 
table  ?  Our  friends,  the  card-players,  are  boister- 
ous ;  they  annoy  me." 

"  By  no  means,"  replied  the  young  man.  "  I 
imagine  every  vacant  chair  in  the  room  belongs  to 
the  man  who  claims  it." 

With  a  bow,  the  old  man  sat  down. 

"  Perhaps  so,"  he  said,  "  but  an  etiquette  obtains, 
or  should  obtain  even  here,  and  I  would  not  intrude 
upon  one  wishing  to  be  alone." 

"  I  am  alone,"  returned  the  young  man,  "  not 
because  I  wish  to  be,  but  because,  in  a  whole  cityful 
of  people,  I  am." 

"  A  stranger  to  the  city,  then?  "  inquired  the  old 
man. 

"  Yes,  and  no,"  was  the  reply,  in  the  manner  of 
one  propounding  a  riddle.  "  I  am  not  a  stranger, 
for  I  was  born  here.  I  am,  because  I  have  been 
continuously  absent  for  the  past  eight  years.  I 
walked  the  streets  to-day  without  seeing  a  face  I 
knew,  and  I  do  not  know  where  to  go  to  find  one  I 
formerly  did  know." 


6  THE  MAN  WITH  A    THUMB. 

"  New  York  is  a  large  city,  and  like  all  large 
cities  its  face  takes  on  a  new  expression  each  year. 
You  have  but  just  returned  then  ?  " 

"  This  morning." 

"  It  is  strange  the  more  celebrated  places  did  not 
attract  you." 

"  I  stepped  out  of  my  hotel  near  by  for  the  fresh 
air,  and  I  strolled  hither  under  the  influence  of  a 
recollection  of  my  boyhood,  almost  infantile,  days." 

For  an  instant  only,  the  old  man  peered  over  his 
glasses  sharply  at  his  companion,  and  then  said  : 

"  I  am  much  attached  to  this  house,  not  because 
my  habit  leads  me  here  nightly,  but  because  I  have 
been  familiar  with  it  ever  since  I  was  a  young  man." 

The  old  man  lifted  his  glass  and  sipped  his  beer, 
apparently  unconscious  that  he  had  said  anything 
to  attract  the  increased  attention  the  young  man 
gave  him. 

"  Even  younger  than  you  are  now,"  he  continued. 
"  Lord  !  Lord  !  what  dinners  I  have  eaten — what 
gay  times  I  have  had  in  this  very  room.  A  young 
friend  of  mine — we  boarded  in  Chambers  Street 
together  in  those  days — bought  this  house  while  it 
was  yet  building,  and  when  it  was  finished,  carried 
his  sweet  young  bride  into  it.  And  a  great  house- 
warming  we  had  too.  I  was  opposed  to  it — that  is, 
to  the  house  ;  I  thought  it  too  fine  for  him  to  begin 
on  ;  for  you  must  know,  young  sir,  there  were  few 
finer  houses  in  this  city  when  this  was  built.  Yet 
he  could  afford  it.  Young  as  he  was,  he  was  the 
head  of  a  flourishing  business,  built  up  by  his 


"WHY!  IT  IS  BLOOD."  7 

father,  who  had  died  and  left  it  to  his  only  son, 
with  a  number  of  old  and  experienced  clerks.  Yes, 
indeed,  no  house  in  this  city  stood  higher  than  that 
of  Dorison  &  Co." 

As  the  old  man  indulged  his  reminiscential  vein, 
the  younger  kept  his  dafk  eyes  fixed  upon  him,  and 
at  the  mention  of  the  name  of  the  firm  the  color 
crept  slowly  into  his  cheeks. 

"  Yes,  there  have  been  gay  times  in  this  old 
house,"  continued  the  old  man.  "  I  have  seen  the 
beauty  and  chivalry  of  old  New  York  gathered 
within  these  walls.  Sometimes  when  the  weather 
is  fair  I  venture  out  to  the  park  to  see  the  ladies 
drive  by,  whom  as  young  girls,  in  all  their  bravery 
of  silks  and  laces,  I  have  seen  sweep  up  and  down 
these  stairs.  Happy  times,  indeed  !  I  was  always 
welcome  here  as  the  confidential  friend  of  the  head 
of  the  house,  and  I  love  it  in  its  degradation.  I 
have  seen  sorrow  and  mourning  here,  too.  I  have 
followed  each  one  of  Dorison's  children  through 
the  door  above  to  their  graves — save  the  youngest, 
a  boy.  But  the  time  came  when  this  house  was 
not  fine  enough  for  Dorison,  and  he  moved  into  a 
brownstone  front  in  Twenty-third  Street.  There 
disaster  fell  upon  him.  His  wife  died  and  he  was 
never  the  same  man.  He  retired  from  business — a 
mistake,  for  the  time  hung  heavily  on  his  hands, 
and  he  drooped.  His  only  interest  was  his  only 
son — only  child  in  fact.  I  saw  him  daily  if  in 
town,  but  in  those  years,  having  interests  abroad,  I 
was  away  from  town  a  great  deal." 


&  THE  MAN  WITH  A   THUMB. 

He  interrupted  himself  to  sip  his  beer.  Had  he 
looked  at  the  young  man  he  would  have  seen  a  most 
singular  expression  on  his  face  ;  high  color  showing 
through  his  dusky  skin  and  eyes  intense  and  burn- 
ing. The  old  man  did  not,  for  he  continued  calmly; 

"  Dorison  and  his  son  lived  in  this  fine  house 
alone  for  some  years.  Then  one  morning  early,  a 
servant  entering  the  library  found  Dorison  bent 
over  the  table  at  work.  Wondering  at  the  early 
rising  of  his  master,  he  spoke.  Receiving  no 
answer,  he  went  up  to  him.  Dorison  was  dead. 
He  had  died  in  the  act  of  writing  a  letter.  The 
most  singular  thing  of  it  was,  that  his  executors 
found  that  he,  whom  we  all  supposed  so  rich,  had 
not  a  dollar.  The  very  house  he  lived  in  was  mort- 
gaged to  its  full  value." 

The  young  man  leaned  forward,  and  extending 
his  hand  laid  it  upon  the  arm  of  the  elder  man,  say- 
ing with  great  decision  : 

"  You  have  a  purpose  in  telling  me  this  story  !  " 

The  old  man  looked  up  with  a  surprised  air  as  he 
replied  : 

"  What  purpose,  young  sir,  could  I  have  in  telling 
such  a  story  to  an  entire  stranger? " 

The  young  man  made  no  reply  for  a  moment,  but 
continued  to  gaze  steadily  into  the  eyes  of  the  elder 
one,  as  if  thinking  profoundly.  Then  he  said  in  a 
deep,  low  voice,  quivering  with  emotion  : 

"I  will  continue  the  story.  Mr.  Dorison  was 
fond  of  the  young  man  his  son,  treating  him  indul- 
gently and  giving  him  a  most  generous  allowance. 


"WHY ;  IT  is  BLOOD:*  0 

The  son  was  a  youngster  caught  up  in  the  whirl  of 
fashion — a  member  of  the  leading  clubs,  following 
what  you  doubtless  would  call  a  fast  life,  but  as 
compared  with  others  not  fast.  If  extravagant,  he 
brought  no  trouble  upon  his  father  ;  if  reckless  in 
his  life,  no  disgrace  upon  the  name  of  Dorison. 
The  letter  his  father  was  writing,  when  he  was  so 
suddenly  stricken  with  death,  ruined  the  son.  To 
whom  this  letter  was  addressed,  or  what  the  father's 
motive  in  writing  it,  never  was  known,  and  it  is 
doubtful  now  whether  these  things  ever  will  be 
known.  The  letter  ran  thus  : 

"  MY  DEAR  FRIEND  :  The  end  is  well-nigh 
reached.  Indeed,  if  you  cannot  immediately  give 
me  the  assistance  I  need,  it  is  even  now  reached. 
With  such  assistance  and  a  few  years  more  of  life, 
all  can  be  repaired.  I  am  a  broken  man  in  spirit 
and  in  health.  The  last  few  years  I  have  been  tor- 
tured as  no  human  being  ever  was,  I  believe.  I 
have  been  compelled  to  sit  helplessly  by  and  see  a 
fine  property  devoted  to  covering  the  consequences 
of  crime  ;  to  making  good  forgeries  on  my  own 
name,  against  which  I  could  not  even  lift  my  voice 
in  protest ;  to  repairing  losses  of  others  by  rob- 
beries and  defalcations  ;  to  stopping  the  wheels  of 
justice,  which  if  permitted  to  go  on  would  have 
brought  exposure  and  disgrace  ;  and  all  the  while 
have  been  compelled  to  sustain  and  conceal  the 
knowledge  that  all  this  was  done  and  brought  upon 
me  by  an  ungrateful  son,  who — " 

"  Death  fell  upon  him,"  continued  the  young  man, 
"the  moment  he  had  condemned  the  son.  To 
whom  was  this  letter  addressed  ?  Crushed  and 


10  THE  MAN  WITH  A   THUMB. 

agonized,  the  son  in  a  frenzy  sought  the  one  to 
whom  it  was  written  as  a  means  of  proving  that  the 
condemnation  of  the  son  by  the  dying  father  was 
untrue.  All  efforts  were  unavailing.  The  fact  of 
the  condemnation  was  bruited  about  ;  it  became 
known  in  the  cnubs  ;  it  became  public  property  ;  it 
was  published  in  the  papers  ;  the  police  undertook 
to  bring  the  crimes  alleged  against  the  son  home  to 
him,  but  they  were  no  more  successful  than  he  was 
in  his  efforts  to  disprove  them.  His  friends  fell 
away  from  him  ;  the  doors  of  his  acquaintances  were 
closed  against  him  ;  he  was  cut  on  the  streets. 
Efforts  being  made  to  expel  him  from  one  club,  he 
resigned  from  all  and  fled  the  city,  practically  pen- 
niless, under  an  assumed  name.  Seeking  employ- 
ment in  a  Western  city,  he  remained  until  a  few  days 
ago,  when,  under  an  impulse  he  could  not  restrain, 
he  returned  to  the  city  of  his  birth  after  eight  years' 
absence.  I  am  he — John  Dorison — disgraced  by 
his  dead  father,  not  by  himself." 

"  I  was  sure  of  it ;  I  was  sure  of  it,"  murmured 
the  old  man. 

"  You  too,"  continued  the  young  man,  his  voice 
trembling  with  the  violence  of  his  emotion,  "you 
too,  a  friend  of  my  father,  believed  and  do  now 
believe  the  libel  my  father  left  me  as  his  only 
heritage." 

There  was  something  so  despairing  and  even 
pathetic  in  the  attitude  and  intensity  of  the  young 
man,  that  the  spectacles  of  the  old  gentleman 
became  dimmed  with  moisture.  There  was  no 


"WHY !  IT  IS  BLOOD"  II 

appeal  for  belief  in  the  tones  of  the  young  man. 
The  elder  read  utter  hopelessness  in  the  intense 
dark  eyes  bent  upon  him  ;  he  saw  the  grief  under- 
lying the  strong  face  which  he  had  newly  aroused 
was  an  old  settled  grief,  not  one  finding  expression 
in  wild  gestures  and  fierce  words,  but  one  that  had 
come  to  abide  with  the  young  man  forever,  with 
which  its  possessor  had  become  familiar  as  with  a 
daily  companion  from  whom  he  never  expected  to 
be  parted. 

The  old  gentleman,  regarding  the  face  of  the 
younger  closely  and  for  the  first  time  openly, 
replied  slowly  and  forcibly  : 

"  No  ;  I  did  not  believe  the  charge  when  I  first 
heard  it ;  I  never  have  believed  it ;  I  do  not  believe 
it  now." 

The  reply  was  unexpected.  Dorison  fell  back 
in  his  chair  with  a  gasp,  staring  blankly  at  the  elder 
man.  At  the  end  of  eight  years,  and  for  the  first 
time,  he  had  found  one  who  believed  him  innocent 
of  the  charges. 

"You — believe — me — innocent — of — those — vile 
— charges  ? " 

"  I  do,"  emphatically  returned  the  old  man. 
"  When  your  father  died  I  was  absent  from  the 
city.  After  I  returned  and  I  learned  the  circum- 
stances, I  sought  you  to  say  so  and  to  offer  my 
assistance,  but  you  had  left  the  city." 

Still  staring  at  the  elder  man  as  if  not  compre- 
hending what  was  said  to  him,  Dorison  remained 


12  THE  MAN  WITH  A   THUMB. 

silent.  Suddenly,  and  the  question  came  as  if 
driven  from  a  gun,  he  asked  : 

"Why?" 

"  Because,"  replied  the  old  man  slowly,  "  I  knew 
something  of  your  life  ;  because  I  had  heard  your 
father  praise  your  conduct,  your  character,  and 
your  rectitude,  and,  therefore,  believed  that  in  his 
sane  mind  he  could  not  mean  you  ;  because  of  cer- 
tain matters  within  my  own  knowledge,  perhaps  it 
were  better  to  say  suspicions,  which  I  have  never 
mentioned  to  any  man  and  which  I  will  not  now, 
at  all  events  until  I  can  look  over  my  papers  and 
refresh  my  memory.  That  letter  of  your  father's 
has  always  been  an  incomprehensible  mystery  to 
me,  and  the  most  charitable  construction  I  can  put 
upon  it  is  that  he  was  not  a  sane  man  when  he 
penned  it.  But  what  became  of  his  great  fortune  ? " 

The  young  man  laughed  bitterly. 

"  Your  words,  the  first  of  belief  in  my  innocence 
I  have  ever  heard,  are  grateful  and  comforting.  If 
your  belief  were  based  upon  more  substantial  rea- 
sons, it  would  give  me  what  I  am  now  utterly  with- 
out— hope.  My  life  has  been  ruined  by  that  unfin- 
ished letter.  Such  is  the  only  result  I  have  reached 
after  eight  years  of  endeavor  to  fathom  the  incom- 
prehensibility." 

"  My  dear  young  sir,"  said  the  old  man,  kindly, 
but  with  a  tone  of  pain  in  his  voice,  as  he  leaned 
forward  and  laid  his  hand  upon  the  arm  of  the 
younger  one,  "  I  can  understand  your  bitterness. 
I  sympathize  with  you  from  the  bottom  of  my 


"WHY!  IT  IS  BLOOD."  13 

heart.  I  admire  you,  that  with  the  strong  feeling 
you  naturally  have,  you  have  given  expression  to 
not  one  word  of  abuse  of  the  parent  who  did  you 
this,  almost  irreparable  injury.  However,  it  is  time 
for  me  to  go  to  bed.  Come  and  see  me  to-morrow 
at  my  office.  We  will  talk  this  matter  over  then 
and  see  what  can  be  done.  Here  is  my  card. 
Good-night." 

The  old  man  went  out  briskly.  Dorison  re- 
mained staring  at  the  card,  which  bore  these 
words,  "  Job  Nettleman.  Commercial  paper  nego- 
tiated. No.  —  Broad  Street,  New  York  City." 

He  fell  back  in  his  chair  in  a  confusion  of 
thought.  Light  seemed  to  be  breaking  upon  his 
dark  horizon.  Would  the  sun  rise  ?  One  man 
believed  him  innocent.  It  was  not  much,  to  be 
sure,  but  he  could  not  let  go  the  fact.  His  mem- 
ory was  aroused  to  acute  activity.  He  lived  over 
again  those  agonized  days  following  the  death  of 
his  father;  his  frenzy,  his  wild  rebelling  against 
his  fate,  his  desperate  endeavors  to  escape  the  evil 
consequences  of  that  unfinished  letter  ;  his  mad 
efforts  to  prove  himself  guiltless — all  this  passed  in 
review  before  him,  and  again  he  felt  the  sharpness, 
the  bitterness,  the  agony  of  those  days,  and  he 
became  oblivious  to  his  surroundings. 

Suddenly  he  was  startled  into  consciousness  of 
external  things  by-a  cry  of  horrified  surprise.  It 
came  from  one  of  the  card-players  : 

"  Why  !  it  is  blood." 


CHAPTER    II. 

A    MYSTERIOUS   TRAGEDY. 

was  commotion  in  the  room  at  once. 
1  Every  one  sprang  to  his  feet.  Crowding 
about  the  table  from  whence  the  outcry  came,  they 
looked  up  to  the  ceiling,  from  whence  the  drop 
which  had  excited  the  exclamation  had  apparently 
fallen. 

A  long,  irregular  crack  in  the  ceiling  was  plainly 
visible.  At  one  end,  that  over  the  table,  a  small, 
dark  spot  was  to  be  seen.  Dorison,  who  had  come 
with  the  rest,  sprang  upon  the  table.  Hardly  had 
he  assumed  an  erect  position  when  the  small,  dark 
spot,  resolving  itself  into  a  globule,  dropped  off, 
barely  escaping  his  clothes,  being  immediately  suc- 
ceeded by  another  spot. 

"  It  is  blood,"  he  said.  "It  is  dripping  through 
this  crack.  It  must  come  from  the  floor  above. 
Who  occupies  it  ?  " 

All  eyes  were  turned  upon  the  German  proprie- 
tor, who,  in  reply  to  this  mute  questioning,  said  : 

"  I  don't  know.  Dey  haf  shoost  move  in.  Dey 
vos  kostumers." 

"  Some  one  may  have  been  murdered,"  suggested 
a  voice  in  the  crowd. 

In  an  instant,  as  if  by  a  common  impulse,  every 
14 


A  MYSTERIOUS  TRAGEDY.  1$ 

one  ran  out  and  mounted  the  steps  leading  to  the 
front  door,  leaving  Dorison  alone  with  the  proprie- 
tor. The  trampling  of  many  feet  upon  the  floor 
above  and  poundings  on  the  door  for  admission 
was  heard. 

Clambering  down  from  the  table,  Dorison  asked 
the  German  if  there  was  not  a  rear  entrance  to  the 
first  floor. 

"  Yaw,"  replied  the  German.  "  Go  dat  door 
owit  and  oop  the  stairs." 

Dorison  hurried  through  the  door  pointed  out 
and  found,  at  his  right,  a  flight  of  steps  which  he 
ascended  quickly.  Pushing  open  the  door  at  the 
top,  he  entered  a  sheltered  veranda.  He  tried  the 
door  leading  into  the  hall,  but  it  was  locked.  He 
sought  the  first  window  opening  on  the  veranda, 
and  on  trying  to  lift  the  lower  sash  it  ran  up  with 
ease.  A  curtain  obstructed  his  way,  which  he 
pushed  aside  and  stepped  into  a  large,  square  room, 
unfurnished,  save  by  two  chairs  and  a  worn  carpet. 
The  gas  burned  dimly  at  a  side  jet. 

He  crossed  the  room  to  the  sliding  doors,  which 
were  closed,  but  he  found  no  difficulty  in  throwing 
one  back.  Heavy  curtains  confronted  him  ;  part- 
ing them  he  passed  into  a  room  well  lighted. 

He  recoiled  with  an  exclamation  of  horror.  At 
his  feet  lay  the  body'  of  a  woman  weltering  in  her 
own  blood.  Of  steady  nerves  and  strong  self-con- 
trol, yet  the  scene  sickened  him,  and  he  staggered 
back  almost  fainting,  the  while  those  in  the  hall 
were  thundering  at  the  door. 


1 6  THE  MAN  WITH  A    THUMB. 

The  woman  had  fallen  forward,  and  as  she  had 
done  so  her  face  had  been  turned  toward  her  right 
shoulder,  her  right  arm  stretched  out  as  if  she  had 
grasped  at  something  and  missed  it.  Where  the 
neck  was  exposed  an  small  gash  was  seen  from 
which  the  blood  had  spurted  and  streamed  in  tor- 
rents, covering  her  dress  and  all  things  in  her 
immediate  vicinity.  A  small  stand,  evidently  heavily 
weighted  with  articles  of  clothing  of  fantastic  color 
and  shape,  had  been  overturned  in  the  struggle 
which  preceded  the  murder,  for  the  goods  were 
scattered  some  distance  and  the  woman  had  fallen 
upon  them. 

Recovering  almost  immediately  from  the  first 
shock  of  surprise  and  horror,  Dorison  bent  over  the 
body.  It  was  that  of  a  young  woman,  perhaps 
twenty-six  or  seven.  The  face  was  prepossessing, 
and  he  conjectured  she  might  in  life  have  been 
called  handsome. 

He  made  a  rapid  survey  of  the  room.  At  his 
right  and  in  front  of  the  mantel-piece  was  a  long, 
narrow  table,  with  deep  drawers  in  it  and  the  top 
of  which  was  covered  with  blue  felt.  Against  the 
wall,  on  all  sides,  were  fitted  drawers  surmounted 
by  shelves,  filled  with  goods.  Over  the  windows 
and  the  two  doors  opening  into  the  hall,  curtains 
were  drawn  closely. 

Immediately  at  his  left  hand,  within  his  reach, 
was  a  small  round  table.  On  it  were  two  articles. 
Barely  conscious  of  his  act,  he  stretched  forth  his 
hand  and  took  them  up.  One  was  a  ring,  the  other 


A  MYSTERIOUS  TRAGEDY.  I? 

a  small,  old-fashioned  oval  portrait  in  a  narrow  gilt 
frame. 

He  was  astonished — overwhelmed. 

The  portrait  was  a  picture  of  his  father,  taken  at 
least  twenty  years  before  his  death.  He  could  not 
trust  his  senses.  Was  his  imagination  affected  by 
the  horror  of  the  scene  and  playing  him  tricks  ?  He 
looked  at  it  again.  There  could  be  no  mistake. 
He  examined  the  ring.  He  recognized  this  too. 
He  had  seen  it  in  his  boyhood  days,  a  hundred 
times,  on  his  father's  finger. 

Confused  and  overwhelmed,  and  under  an  im- 
pulse he  could  not  analyze,  he  slipped  them  both 
into  his  pocket. 

There  was  a  new  movement  in  the  hall  and  new 
steps,  which  had  in  them  the  sound  of  authority. 

A  voice  said  : 

"  We  can't  open  that  door." 

"Then  we'll  break  it  down,"  said  a  stern  "one  in 
reply. 

Aroused,  Dorison  undertook  to  step  over  the 
prostrate  body  at  his  feet,  intending  to  open  the 
door.  As  he  did  so  he  saw  a  piece  of  paper  in  the 
hand  of  the  murdered  girl.  Moved  by  an  uncon- 
trollable impulse,  and  without  reason  governing 
him,  he  bent  down  quickly  and  gently  disengaged 
it.  Hastening  now  to  the  door,  as  he  was  about  to 
push  back  the  curtain,  he  perceived  upon  the  floor 
a  large  piece  which  he  picked  up  and  pocketed 
under  the  same  singular  impulse. 

Drawing  the  bolts,  he  opened  the  door,  just  as 


1 8  THE  MAN  WITH  A    THUMB. 

two  policemen  placed  their  shoulders  against  it  to 
burst  it  open.  They  fell  upon  him,  and  without  his 
assistance  would  have  fallen  to  the  floor. 

A  man  in  citizen's  clothes  pushed  his  way 
between  the  two  policemen  and  hastily  swept  the 
room  with  his  keen  eyes.  Observing  the  body  on 
the  floor,  he  turned  to  the  officers  and  said  : 

"  Guard  that  door.     Let  no  one  in  or  out." 

Walking  over  to  where  the  body  lay,  he  closely 
examined  it  and  the  surroundings.  Then  he  came 
back  to  Dorison  and  demanded  : 

"  What  were  you  doing  here  ?  " 

"  Who  are  you  ?  "  demanded  Dorison  in  return. 

"An  officer  of  the  law.     Answer  my  question." 

"  I  entered  from  the  rear,  while  the  others  were 
trying  to  force  an  entrance  from  the  front." 

The  officer,  who  was  the  most  celebrated  detec- 
tive of  his  day,  bent  a  piercing  look  upon  Dorison, 
who,  however,  did  not  flinch  from  the  scrutiny. 

"  We'll  see  about  that.  Dolan,"  he  said,  turn- 
ing to  an  officer  in  uniform,  "  arrest  this  man." 

"  I  shall  not  attempt  to  prevent  you  from  arrest- 
ing me,"  said  Dorison  quietly,  but  firmly.  "  But 
you  must  make  no  mistakes,  for  I  shall  not  forgive 
them." 

This  calmness  and  self-possession  made  an 
impression  on  the  officer. 

"  How  is  it  that  you  were  here  alone  ? "  he  asked. 

"  I  have  told  you.  After  the  alarm  was  raised, 
all  who  were  in  the  saloon  below  ran  up  to  this 
door  except  myself.  I  asked  the  proprietor  if  there 


A  MYSTERIOUS  TRAGEDY.  19 

was  not  a  rear  entrance,  and  being  told  there  was, 
came  up  that  way  and  made  an  easy  entrance." 

"  Yaw.  Das  iss  so,"  remarked  the  proprietor  of 
the  saloon,  from  the  door.  "  Dey  vos  all  gone  owit 
an'  he  ask  me.  I  say  go  oop  de  back  stairs." 

"  He  was  drinking  in  your  saloon  then  ?  " 

"  Yaw.  He  drink  ein  glass  wine  and  smoke  ein 
cigar,  and  talk  mit  old  Mr.  Nettleman  all  de  night." 

"  The  gentleman  sat  with  the  rest  of  us,  Cap- 
tain," said  another  voice  from  the  hall.  "  When 
the  man  cried  out  that  blood  was  dropping  on  his 
cards,  the  gentleman  jumped  on  the  table  to  see 
where  it  was  coming  from." 

"  I  see,"  said  the  Captain,  in  an  altered  tone,  and 
turning  to  Dorison  said  :  "  It  was  imprudent  of 
you  to  attempt  an  entrance  before  the  officers  were 
called." 

"  Perhaps,"  returned  Dorison,  with  a  sober  smile. 
"  In  such  emergencies,  however,  men  are  rarely 
prudent.  The  prudent  thing  for  me  to  do  was  to 
walk  away  entirely.  As  it  is,  I  presume  I  have 
made  a  witness  of  myself  for  the  coroner's  inquest." 

This  was  so  true  that  the  detective  smiled  and 
regarded  him  with  more  favor. 

"  What  is  your  name  .' "  he  asked. 

Dorison  hesitated.  He  had  registered  himself  at 
a  neighboring  hotel  under  the  name  he  had  borne 
since  he  left  New  York  eight  years  before — James 
Dudley.  He  knew  the  next  question  would  be  his 
address,  and  if  he  were  to  give  his  proper  name  an 
examination  of  the  register  would  discover  the  dis- 


20  THE  MAN  WITH  A    THUMB. 

crepancy,  with  a  resulting  suspicion.  If,  on  the 
contrary,  he  were  to  give  his  assumed  name,  he 
would,  if  application  were  made  to  Mr.  Nettleman, 
since  he  had  not  given  his  assumed  name  to  that 
gentleman,  be  at  a  disadvantage  in  that  quarter. 
He  perceived  his  dilemma  without  seeing  his  proper 
course. 

His  hesitancy  aroused  the  suspicion  of  the  detec- 
tive. With  increased  sternness  the  demand  was 
repeated. 

Under  the  belief  that  less  trouble  would  result 
from  using  his  registered  name,  he  replied  : 

"James  Dudley.  I  come  from  Dubuque,  Iowa. 
I  am  registered  at  the  Grand  Central.  I  arrived 
in  town  at  seven  this  morning.  I  have  not  been  in 
New  York  for  eight  years  before." 

"Why  did  you  hesitate  in  answering?" 

"Because  I  vainly  thought  by  concealment  of 
my  name  I  might  escape  the  annoyance  of  being  a 
witness,  but  a  moment's  reflection  showed  me  the 
absurdity  of  the  idea." 

This  was  promptly  said,  but  frank  and  ingenuous 
as  the  reply  seemed  to  those  who  heard  it,  the  detec- 
tive, looking  into  Dorison's  eyes,  saw  something 
there  which  did  not  satisfy  him. 

"  Do  you  know  this  Mr.  Nettleman  ?  " 

"  I  have  known  about  him  all  my  life — since  boy- 
hood." 

"  Does  he  know  you  ?  " 

"  Yes  " 

At  this  moment  two  men  in  citizen's  clothes,  who 


A  MYSTERIOUS  TRAGEDY.  21 

were  admitted  by  the  uniformed  officers,  entered 
and  took  up  their  stations  respectfully  behind  the 
detective. 

"  What  did  you  see  when  you  entered  ? "  asked 
the  detective,  after  a  long  and  keen  examination  of 
Dorison's  face. 

"  That,"  replied  the  young  man,  pointing  to  the 
body  on  the  floor.  "  I  had  but  just  entered  when 
you  came." 

The  detective  did  not  permit  his  eyes  to  follow 
the  pointed  finger  of  Dorison,  but  still  continued 
his  stern  and  searching  examination,  while  Dorison 
fully  appreciated  that  he  had  become  an  object  of 
suspicion. 

There  was  a  slight  diversion  at  the  door.  A  man 
of  average  height,  inclined  to  be  stout,  perhaps 
sixty,  with  shaven  face,  whose  only  striking  feature 
was  a  pair  of  eyes,  small,  dark,  keen,  active  and 
restless,  who  had  been  standing  without  the  door, 
pushed  his  way  in.  The  officers  guarding  the  door 
made  a  motion  as  if  to  stop  him,  but,  upon  an 
almost  imperceptible  nod  from  the  Captain,  per- 
mitted him  to  enter. 

The  new-comer  crossed  to  the  table  covered  with 
blue  felt,  his  hands  in  his  vest-pockets,  and  leaning 
against  the  end  furthest  from  the  body,  sent  his 
eyes  into  every  part  of  the  room  with  rapid  darts, 
finally  fixing  them  on  Dorison,  without  abandoning 
the  motionless  attitude  he  had  assumed  on  entering. 

The  detective  began  a  systematic  inspection  of 
the  body,  the  room,  the  entrances  thereto.  He 


22  THE  MAN  WITH  A    THUMB. 

took  the  names  of  all  present  and  those  in  the 
saloon  when  the  drop  of  blood  was  discovered.  He 
closely  questioned  the  proprietor.  The  only  fact 
he  elicited  was  that  two  weeks  previously  the  rooms 
had  been  rented  by  a  woman,  who  announced  that 
she  would  conduct  a  costumer's  business,  and  that 
the  saloon  proprietor  had  never  seen  but  one  person 
he  knew  to  be  connected  with  the  business,  and 
that  an  old  woman,  and  she  but  once.  Brought  in 
to  examine  the  body,  he  declared  he  had  never 
seen  the  woman  in  life,  and  did  not  know  who  she 
was  or  where  she  came  from. 

The  detective  turned  to  Dorison  again  : 

"  When  you  ascended  those  back  stairs,  was  the 
door  at  the  top  open  or  shut  ?  " 

"  Shut." 

"  Did  you  try  the  door  leading  from  the  veranda 
to  the  hall  ?  " 

"  I  did,  and  found  it  locked." 

"  How  did  you  enter  ?  " 

"  By  the  window,  next  the  door." 

V  Was  the  sash  raised  as  it  is  now  ?  " 

"  No  ;  I  threw  it  up." 

"  It  was  not  fastened  then  ? " 

"  No." 

"  How  did  you  enter  this  room  ? " 

"  Through  those  sliding  doors." 

"  Were  they  open  as  now  ?  " 

"  No,  I  threw  them  back.'-' 

"  Was  there  ajight  in  the  back  room  ?  " 

"  Yes  ;  just  as  there  is  now." 


A  MYSTERIOUS  TRAGEDY.  2$ 

Turning  to  one  of  the  men  in  citizen's  clothes,  at 
his  back,  the  Captain  said  : 

"  Jones,  go  into  that  yard  and  see  if  it  is  possi- 
ble for  a  man  to  make  his  escape  over  the  fence 
and  reach  the  street." 

"  It  would  be  possible  for  a  man  to  descend 
those  back  stairs,  enter  the  saloon  below  from  the 
rear,  and  so  gain  the  street,"  said  the  old  man  with 
his  hands  in  his  vest-pockets,  without  moving. 

The  detective  looked  at  him  sharply  and  replied  : 

"  That  is  true." 

"  He  even  might  have  sat  down  and  drank  beer 
afterwards  and  been  in  the  saloon  when  the  blood 
was  discovered." 

"  That  also  might  be  true,"  returned  the  detec- 
tive. 

"  The  proprietor  ought  to  know  whether  he 
served  a  customer  whom  he  did  not  notice  enter 
the  front  door." 

"  Again  that  may  be  so  ;  I'll  inquire." 

"  Also,"  continued  the  old  man,  "  if  you  are 
speculating,  your  man  might  have  entered  the 
saloon  and  slipped  out  to  gain  this  room  by  the 
rear  as  this  young  man  did,  and  slipped  back  again 
after  he  did  the  job." 

"  Ah,"  said  the  detective,  turning  a  look  of  ap- 
parent renewed  interest  upon  Dorison.  He  took 
the  proprietor  aside  and  questioned  him  on  the 
points  raised  by  the  old  man.  The  German  was 
quite  certain  Dorison  had  never  stirred  from  the 
chair  he  seated  himself  in  when  he  first  entered, 


24  THE  MAN  WITH  A   THUMB. 

until  the  blood  was  discovered  ;  he  was  in  full 
sight  and  could  not  have  moved  without  his  knowl- 
edge ;  besides,  he  had  talked  all  the  time  with  Mr. 
Nettleman,  a  fact  that  attracted  his  attention,  since, 
though  the  old  gentleman  came  there  nightly,  he 
rarely  talked  with  any  one.  As  to  the  possibilities 
suggested  by  the  old  man  with  regard  to  others,  he 
could  not  speak  so  positively,  though  he  did  not 
think  that  anything  like  that  suggested  by  the  old 
man  had  occurred,  because  the  saloon  had  not 
been  so  full  that  he  could  not  take  cognizance  of 
every  one  in  the  place.  When  asked  to  look  over 
the  throng  in  the  hall  to  see  if  all  were  there  who 
were  in  the  saloon  when  the  blood  was  discovered, 
he  said  after  examination  that  while  there  were 
some  in  the  hall  who  were  not  in  the  saloon,  there 
was  one  who  was  in  the  saloon  who  had  stood  by 
him  in  the  hall  when  he  was  called  in  to  see  if  he 
could  recognize  the  body,  who  was  not  there  then. 
He  was  a  stranger  who  had  come  in  early  and 
drank  brandy.  He  could  not  describe  him,  save 
that  he  was  not  an  old  man,  was  not  tall,  and  had 
brown  hair  and  mustache. 

"  That  undoubtedly  is  the  man  I  want,"  said  the 
detective. 

Sending  Dorison  to  the  Headquarters  in  charge 
of  one  of  the  policemen,  in  order  that  a  statement 
as  to  himself  and  the  events  of  the  night  might  be 
taken,  and  telling  the  officer  to  put  a  man  on  to 
shadow  Dorison  after  he  left  Headquarters,  the 
officer  busied  himself  with  completing  his  exami- 


A  MYSTERIOUS  TRAGEDY.  25 

nation  of  the  premises.  Finally,  leaving  an  officer 
in  charge,  he  went  away,  accompanied  by  the 
remaining  officer  in  plain,  clothes. 

"  This  night  has  not  brought  forth  much,"  he  said, 
"  but  I  suppose  we  can  find  out  from  the  woman 
who  rented  the  rooms  who  the  girl  is.  We  must 
hunt  her  up  the  first  thing  to-morrow  morning. 
That  must  be  your  job.  " 

"Go  to  the  agent  who  rented  the  rooms,  I 
suppose  ?  " 

"Yes  ;  that's  the  quickest  way." 

"  Do  you  think  that  fellow  Dudley  is  mixed  up 
in  it  ?" 

"  He  ?  No,  but  he's  concealing  something.  I 
suspect  he  does  not  want  to  be  too  closely  ques- 
tioned about  himself.  But  he  hasn't  anything  to  do 
with  this  case." 

"  The  old  man  turned  up  again  prompt.  " 

"  Yes,  "  replied  the  Captain.  "  He  seems  to  have 
the  scent  of  a  buzzard  for  a  dead  body.  Strange 
fancy,  isn't  it  ?  I  once  knew  a  fellow  who  had  a 
fancy  for  going  to  every  funeral  he  could  hear  of, 
whether  he  knew  the  people  or  not.  This  old  fel- 
low is  a  sharp  old  duck  and  has  some  excellent 
ideas.  But  who  he  is  I  can't  tell." 


CHAPTER   III. 

"  HOW    FORTUNE    PLIES    HER    SPORTS." 

JOHN  DORISON  awoke  the  next  morning 
betimes,  with  an  uneasy  sense  of  having  passed 
through  a  nightmare.  It  was  some  moments  before 
he  could  recall  the  events  of  the  night  previous. 
When  he  did,  he  leaped  quickly  from  his  bed,  for 
by  them  was  also  recalled  a  resolution  to  seek  Mr. 
Nettleman  as  early  as  possible,  to  inform  him  of  the 
assumed  name  he  had  given  the  police  the  night 
previous,  and  to  beg  him  to  assist  him  in  preserving 
his  incognito. 

Dorison  did  not  fear  implication  in  the  murder, 
though  he  knew  that  the  detective  regarded  him 
with  more  or  less  suspicion.  What  he  did  fear, 
however,  was  that  if  his  proper  name  were  known 
it  would  awaken  recollection  of  the  events  attend- 
ing and  the  consequences  of  his  father's  unfinished 
letter.  The  police  at  that  time  had  been  employed 
to  search  for  the  crime  his  father's  letter  had 
charged  him  with. 

Therefore  he  hastily  dressed,  the  while  he  cursed 
the  impulse  that  had  induced  him  to  return  to  the 
city  of  his  birth,  where  everything  served  to  remind 
him  of  his  undeserved  disgrace.  Absently  thrust- 
ing his  hand  in  his  pocket,  he  came  upon  the 
26 


"HOW  FORTUNE  PLIES  HER  SPORTS."      2J 

portrait  and  ring  he  had  obtained  the  night  previ- 
ous. 

It  was  with  a  shock  of  surprise  that  he  drew 
them  out,  for  he  had  forgotten  them. 

Taking  them  to  the  window  he  gave  them  a 
careful  examination. 

There  could  be  no  mistake. 

The  portrait  was  that  of  his  father,  and  the  ring 
was  too  familiar  for  him  to  make  an  error  concern- 
ing it.  But  how  came  they  in  the  room  where  he 
had  found  them  ?  Who  was  the  young  woman  in 
whose  possession  they  apparently  were  ?  If,  as  he 
supposed,  she  was  no  more  than  twenty-five,  she 

could  have  been  only 
about  seventeen  when 
his  father  died.  The 
portrait  was  taken 
when  she  was  about 
five.  It  was  unex- 
plainable.  Or,  could 
Madame  Delamour  be 
a  dealer  in  old  relics 


*•  ''*          -*       «  j    •       i      •*     Ti 

/>  r\  and  jewelry  ?     It   was 

worth  examining  into. 

But  how  ? 

He  could  not  stir 
without  showing  how 
he  had  obtained  pos- 
session  of  the  articles. 

He  returned  them 
to  his  pocket,  and  in 


28     "HOW  FORTUNE  PLIES  HER  SPORTS." 

doing  so  encountered  the  slips  of  paper  he  bad- 
found  at  the  same  time. 

Both  were  written  upon,  and  he  was  startled  by 
the  similarity  of  the  writing  to  that  of  his  father. 
He  endeavored  to  obtain  sense  of  what  was  writ- 
ten. The  pieces  were  evidently  torn  from  letters. 
The  smaller  one,  that  which  he  had  taken  from 
the  girl's  fingers,  conveyed  no  intelligence  to  him. 

Dorison  puzzled  long  over  this,  but  could  make 
nothing  of  it.  He  examined  the  other  slip.  It  was 
in  the  same  hand. 


*    &£**.  • 


"  HO  W  FOR  TUNE  PLIES  HER  SPOR  TS. "        2$ 

A  little  more  intelligence  perhaps  was  to  be 
gained.  Some  one  named  Harold  had  evidently 
been  doing  wrong  and  had  caused  some  one  to  pay 
out  money  to  repair  the  consequences  of  the  wrong- 
doing. The  more  he  studied  the  two  scraps  of 
paper,  the  more  he  became  convinced  that  the 
writing  was  that  of  his  father. 

He  was  greatly  agitated  and  much  confused. 
Having  exhausted  speculation,  he  descended  to 
the  breakfast-room,  but  with  no  appetite,  for  the 
emotions  by  which  he  was  possessed  robbed  him  of 
all  relish  for  food.  He  contented  himself  with  a  cup 
of  coffee.  Arising  from  the  table  he  saw  it  was 
after  eight  o'clock,  and  thinking  it  would  be  fully 
nine  before  he  could  reach  Mr.  Nettleman's  office, 
he  determined  to  set  out  at  once. 

He  did  not  notice  that  as  he  set  foot  upon  the 
pavement,  a  slight,  undersized  man  followed  him  out 
of  the  hotel,  nor  that  he  entered  the  same  stage 
he  did,  nor  that,  on  reaching  Wall  Street,  this 
individual  followed  close  after  him  and  had  busi- 
ness in  precisely  the  same  direction.  He  was 
too  much  preoccupied  in  the  events  through  which 
he  had  just  passed  to  give  heed  to  matters  about 
him. 

As  it  was,  the  slight,  undersized  individual  fol- 
lowed him  directly  to  the  door  of  the  building  in 
which  were  Mr.  Nettleman's  offices,  even  ascending 
the  ^stairs  to  the  second  floor  where  they  were 
situated. 

The   old    gentleman    was   at   his   desk,  intently 


36  THE  MAN  WITH  A   THUMB. 

reading  the  morning  paper.  As  Dorison  entered,  he 
looked  up  and  cried  out  with  animation: 

"  Ah,  is  that  you  ?  Do  you  know  that  a  murder 
was  committed  last  night  in  the  very  house  where 
we  met  ? " 

"  Yes,"  replied  Dorison,  sitting  down  beside  the 
desk.  "  I  was  still  there  when  it  was  discovered. 
Indeed  I  may  claim  the  honor,  if  honor  it  be,  of 
discovering  it." 

"  Oh,"  said  the  old  gentleman,  highly  interested. 
"  Were  you  the  one  who  first  saw  the  drop  of 
blood  ? " 

"  Not  that,  but  I  was  the  one  who  forced  my 
way  through  the  rear,  found  the  body,  and  unfast- 
ened the  door  for  the  police." 

"  But  the  paper  says  it  was  a  man  named  Dud- 
ley— James  Dudley.  That  is  as  near  as  the  papers 
get  to  it." 

"  The  papers  are  right  on  the  information  given 
them,"  said  Dorison.  "  It  is  about  that  very  name 
I  have  hurried  so  early  to  see  you  this  morning. 
You  will  recollect  I  told  you  that  when  I  left  the  city 
eight  years  ago,  I  did  so  under  an  assumed  name. 
That  was  the  name  I  used,  and  under  it  I  registered 
when  I  returned  to  town  yesterday  morning." 

The  old  gentleman  recollected  well,  and  Dorison 
hastily  recounted  his  fears  that  the  police  would 
discover  the  assumed  name  through  Mr.  Nettleman 
if  not  warned  in -time,  and  giving  his  reasons  for 
desiring  to  preserve  his  incognito,  he  begged  the  old 
gentleman  to  assist  him  in  preserving  it. 


"HOW  FOR  TUNE  PLIES  HER  SPOR  TS."        3  J 

At  this  point  they  were  interrupted  by  a  caller. 
Handing  the  morning  paper  to  Dorison,  the  old 
gentleman  sat  himself  down  with  the  stranger  in 
a  remote  corner  of  the  room,  where  he  held  a 
whispered  conversation. 

After  the  stranger  departed,  Mr.  Nettleman  re- 
turned to  Dorison,  his  fine  old  face  wreathed  in 
smiles. 

"  Not  a  moment  too  soon.  That  was  an  agent 
of  the  police  come  to  inquire  about  you,  just  as  you 
had  anticipated.  Oh,  I  was  discreet !  Do  not  be 
alarmed.  I  vouched  for  you.  I  assured  him  your 
name  was  Dudley,  that  you  had  arrived  in  New 
York  yesterday  morning  after  an  eight  years' 
absence,  and  I  told  him  the  one  he  was  inquiring 
about  was  you  sitting  there.  I  threw  the  mantle  of 
my  friendship  and  protection  about  you." 

Well  pleased  that  he  had  moved  so  promptly,  and 
congratulating  himself  over  his  narrow  escape,  Dori- 
son attempted  to  lead  their  conversation  back  to 
the  subject  of  the  evening  previous,  but  there  was 
another  interruption. 

A  short,  stout,  elderly  man  entered,  whom  Dori- 
son at  once  recognized  as  the  old  man  who  had 
pushed  his  way  into  the  room  of  the  murder,  with 
both  hands  in  his  vest-pockets,  the  night  previous, 
and  who  had  done  not  a  little  toward  directing 
suspicion  toward  himself. 

As  he  entered,  Mr.  Nettleman  cried  out  jocularly  : 

"  Hello,  Simon  the  Cellarer  !  Come  here  and  sit." 

The  old  man  crossed  the  room  with  a  contorted 


32  THE  MAX   WITH  A    THUMB. 

face  which  required  the  aid  of  imagination  to  recog- 
nize as  a  smile. 

As  he  sat  down,  Mr.  Nettleman  in  high  spirits 
said,  turning  to  Dorison  : 

"  My  young  sir,  I  want  you  to  know  this  man. 
He  is  my  cousin,  who  was  brought  up  with  me. 
Simon  Cathcart.  I  call  him  Simon  the  Cellarer. 
Did  you  ever  hear  of  Vidocq  ?  There  he  is.  Only 
a  greater  one.  He's  a  ferret — a  ferret,  sir." 

The  old  gentleman  leaned  back  in  his  chair  greatly 
amused  over  his  own  wit  and  the  perplexed  face  of 
Dorison. 

All  the  time  the  sharp  little  eyes  of  the  new-comer 
were  keenly  scrutinizing  Dorison. 

"My  cousin,"  he  said  slowly,  "is  a  very  funny 
man.  He  thinks  it  very  funny  that  I,  who  have 
spent  my  life  as  a  detective  in  the  West,  having 
accumulated  enough  money  to  make  me  indepen- 
dent at  least,  should,  having  nothing  in  the  world 
to  do,  follow  from  interest  occasionally  my  old  busi- 
ness. Well,  I  don't  object.  I  get  even  with  him, 
for  he  has  to  look  after  my  investments  for  the 
privilege  of  being  funny  at  my  expense.  It  was 
you,"  he  continued,  breaking  off  suddenly  into  a 
new  subject,  "who  brought  me  here  this  morning." 

"  I,"  cried  Dorison  in  surprise. 

"Yes.  When  you  were  giving  an  account  of  your- 
self last  night,  Cousin  Nettleman  was  mentioned 
as  having  talked  with  you,  and  I  came  down  to  see 
what  he  knew  about  you." 

"  You  don't  suppose  me  to  be  connected  with 


"  HO  W  FOR  TUNE  PLIES  HER  SPOR  TS."        33 

the  murder,  do  you  ?  "  asked  Dorison,  amused  by 
the  directness  of  the  old  man. 

"  No.  I  know  you  are  not.  But,  young  man,  you 
are  not  a  good  actor.  Any  one  could  see  you  were 
concealing  something.  The  man  who  examined 
you  saw  it  at  once.  You  are  an  object  of  suspicion. 
You  are  shadowed  now." 

"  Me  ?     Shadowed  ?     How  do  you  know  ? " 

"  I  do  know  it,  and  that  is  enough,"  said  the  old 
man  positively. 

"  Ah  !  "  cried  Mr.  Nettleman,  enthusiastically, 
"  this  is  the  very  man  to  help  us.  Simon,  do  you 
recollect  the  day  we  went  down  to  Coney  Island 
last  summer,  when  I  told  you  at  dinner  that  strange 
thing  about  my  old  friend  Dorison  ?  " 

"  Perfectly  well." 

"  And  how  he  was  found  dead  with  a  letter  writ- 
ten before  him  ?  " 

"  Yes,  charging  his  only  son  with  certain  crimes." 

"  The  same.  And  you  recollect  I  said  I  believed 
the  son  to  be  innocent  ?  " 

"  Yes.  You  said  that  the  letter  was  to  be  ac- 
counted for  on  one  of  two  grounds.  Either  Mr. 
Dorison  was  insane,  or,  that  if  he  had  been  per- 
mitted to  finish  his  letter  it  would  have  been  found 
he  did  not  charge  his  son  with  those  things." 

"  Precisely." 

"  And  I  told  you  that  if  you  had  stated  correctly 
the  words  of  that  letter,  the  second  ground  fell  and 
you'd  have  to  stand  on  the  first.  And  I  further 
said  that  it  would  be  a  very  pretty  case  to  work  up." 


34  THE  MAN  WITH  A    THUMB. 

"  Precisely.     Well,  this  young  man  is  the  son." 

There  was  no  expression  on  the  old  man's  face 
as  he  turned  it  upon  Dorison,  but  his  eyes  showed 
a  greater  interest. 

"You  gave  the  name  of  Dudley,  last  night?" 
he  said. 

"  Yes,"  replied  Dorison.  "  That  is  what  I  was 
concealing.  After  my  trouble,  and  when  I  fled 
the  city,  I  changed  my  name." 

"  I  see." 

"  Now,"  said  Mr.  Nettleman,  briskly  and  quite 
excitedly,  "  I  recognized  him  last  night  by  a  trick 
he  has  of  handling  his  cigar  precisely  as  his  father 
did,  besides  his  strong  resemblance,  so  I  sought 
him  in  conversation.  More  than,  that,  I  have 
promised  to  aid  him  in  trying  to  get  at  the  bottom 
of  this  mystery.  Simon,  will  you  assist  ? " 

"Yes.  It's  a  pretty  case,  and  it  will  please  me 
to  unravel  it  if  I  can." 

Much  agitated  and  not  a  little  moved  by  the 
enthusiasm  shown,  as  well  as  the  conviction  evinced 
by  Mr.  Nettleman  that  he  was  innocent,  he  failed 
to  notice  the  manner  in  which  Cathcart  had  taken 
the  case  to  himself  and  quietly  assumed  that  he 
only  could  unravel  it.  He  got  up  from  his  chair 
to  walk  about  to  quiet  himself.  As  he  did  so  he 
thrust  his  hand  in  his  pocket  and  felt  the  portrait 
and  ring. 

He  returned  quickly. 

"  You  say,"  he  said  earnestly  to  Mr.  Cathcart, 
"that  you  saw  I  was  trying  to  conceal  something 


"HOW  FOR  TUNE  PLIES  HER  SPOR  TS. "        35 

last  night ;  I  was.  Something  had  occurred  between 
the  time  of  my  entering  and  my  admittance  of  the 
police,  which  I  did  not  speak  of — which  I  was 
concealing." 

"  Ah  !  "  said  the  ex-detective,  interested  at  once. 

Dorison  took  the  portrait  from  his  pocket  and 
handed  it  to  Mr.  Nettleman,  saying  : 

"  Do  you  know  that  picture  ?  " 

"  Do  I  know  it  ?  Why,  of  course  I  do.  It  is  a 
picture  of  your  father  taken  nearly  thirty  years  ago. 
And  a  very  good  picture  it  is.  Do  I  know  it? 
Yes,  indeed,  and  I  can  tell  you  who  took  it.  Fred- 
ericks did.  I  was  with  your  father  when  it  was 
taken.  He  had  two,  one  of  which  he  gave  to  me. 
Where  did  you  get  this  one  ? " 

Without  replying,  Dorison  took  from  his  pocket 
the  seal  ring. 

"  Do  you  recognize  this  ?  " 

Much  astonished,  Nettleman  took  the  ring  in  his 
hand  and  examined  it  closely. 

"  I  gave  that  ring  to  your  father,"  he  said,  "  the 
day  before  he  was  married.  He  gave  a  half  a 
dozen  of  his  young  friends  a  dinner  that  day,  and 
we  each  made  him  a  little  present.  This  was 
mine." 

He  handed  it  back.  The  ex-detective  was  an 
interested  observer. 

Dorison  now  asked  Mr.  Nettleman  whether  he 
had  any  letters  or  documents  in  his  father's  hand- 
writing. 

"  I  ought  to  have  plenty  of  his  letters.     Let  me 


36  THE  MAX   ll'lTll  A    I'll U MB. 

see.  I  did  all  his  insurance  for  years.  I  gave  up 
that  b'usiness  in  1861.  Let  me  look  at  my  '60  box. 
You  are  younger  than  I  am,  .take  that  step-ladder 
and  hand  me  from  that  upper  shelf  the  box  with 
'  1860  '  on  it." 

Dorison  did  as  he  was  requested  and  brought 
the  box  to  the  old  man,  who,  opening  it,  ran  over 
its  contents  and  finally  picked  out  a  letter  or 
two. 

Dorison  handed  him  the  two  fragments  of  paper 
saying  : 

"  Please  compare  the  handwriting  on  those  two 
fragments  of  paper  with  my  father's  letters  and  tell 
me  what  you  think." 

The  old  gentleman,  much  excited,  did  so,  and 
exclaimed  : 

"  It  is  the  same.  There  can  be  no  doubt  about 
it.  There  is  no  doubt  about  it." 

Dorison,  reaching  out  his  hand,  recovered  the 
two  fragments  of  paper,  and  turning  to  Mr.  Cath- 
cart,  said  : 

"  Last  night,  as  you  know,  I  reached  the  room 
where  the  murder  was  committed  first  and  alone. 
On  a  small,  round  table  near  the  sliding  doors  I 
found  this  portrait  and  the  ring.  In  the  hand  of 
the  murdered  girl  was  this  smaller  slip  of  paper, 
which  I  took  from  it.  On  the  floor  this  larger  slip. 
You  can  imagine  my  amazement  on  finding  my 
father's  portrait  and  the  ring  I  had  so  often  as  a 
boy  seen  on  my  father's  finger.  Hardly  knowing 
what  I  was  doing  I  placed  all  in  my  pocket,  when 


"  HOW  FORTUNE  PLIES  HER  SPORTS"        37 

I  knew  the  police  were  about  to  enter.  This  is 
what  I  was  really  concealing." 

Mr.  Nettleman  looked  with  astonishment  on  the 
young  man,  almost  helpless  in  surprise. 

"  A  rather  serious  thing  to  do,"  said  the  ex-de- 
tective, "  but  I  think  I  would  have  done  the  same 
thing  had  I  been  in  your  place." 

"  I  have  no  regrets  now,"  replied  Dorison.  "  But 
I  am  puzzled  to  know  how  they  got  there,  and 
what  connection  there  could  have  been  between 
that  girl  and  my  father." 

The  ex-detective  got  up,  and  placing  his  hand  in 
his  vest-pockets,  walked  up  and  down  the  room  in 
a  deep  study,  the  others  watching  him  as  he  walked. 

After  a  time  he  said  to  Dorison  : 

"You  want  to  find  out  the  mystery  of  that  unfin- 
ished letter,  and  to  prove  that  the  charges  under 
which  you  have  rested  for  eight  years  are  un- 
founded ? " 

"I  do,  most  earnestly." 

"  I  earnestly  want  to  find  out  who  committed 
that  murder.  I  am  impressed  with  the  idea  that  in 
the  discovery  of  the  one  will  be  found  the  revela- 
tion of  the  other.  Well,  then,  let  us  join  our  forces 
and  work — give  ourselves  up  to  it  and  do  nothing 
else." 

"There  is  an  obstacle  as  far  as  I  am  concerned," 
said  Dorison. 

"  What  ? " 

"  I  am  without  funds.  I  work  for  my  living,  and 
must  return  to  Dubuque  to  my  position." 


3  THE  ALLY   IVITII  A    THL'Mll. 

"  There  is  none,"  cried  Nettleman.  "  I  have 
plenty,  and — 

The  young  man  interrupted  the  impetuous  prof- 
fer with  an  indignant  gesture,  saying  : 

"  I  am  not  an  object  of  charity." 

"  Will  you  take  employment  from  me  ?  "  asked 
Cathcart  calmly.  Perceiving  the  young  man  to 
hesitate  he  added:  "The  pay  will  be  $175  a 
month  and  expenses — employment  to  continue 
until  the  murder  of  last  night  is  ferreted  out." 

The  young  man's  blood  flushed  into  his  face, 
and  he  inclined  a  glance  full  of  wonder  upon  the 
one  making  to  him  so  singular  a  proposition. 

"  I  mean  it,"  added  Cathcart.  "  I  had  deter- 
mined to  enter  upon  the  case  of  the  murder  before 
I  came  here,  and  I  foresee  I  shall  need  just  such  a 
man  as  you  are.  It  will  be  hard  work,  and  you 
will  find  me  a  hard  taskmaster.  I  offer  you  small 
wages  because  there  is  the  additional  incentive  in 
the  possibility  of  the  discovery  of  the  secret  that 
worries  you.  Come,  is  it  a  bargain  ? " 

"  Where  is  your  profit?"  asked  Dorison. 

"  That  is  my  affair,"  sharply  replied  Cathcart, 
and  seeing  Dorison's  face  darken,  he  added, 
"  There  is  plenty  of  profit  for  me,  but  I  am  not 
going  to  tell  how  or  how  much." 

"  I  will  accept  the  employment,"  said  Dorison. 

"  I  do  not  see  why  I  am  pushed  aside,"  said 
Nettleman  reproachfully.  "  Do  you  think  I  have 
no  interest  in  this  matter  ?  I  am  comparatively 
rich,  young  man,  and  what  I  am,  I  owe  to  the 


"  HO  W  FOR  TUNE  PLIES  HER  SPOR  TS. "       39 

aid  your  father  gave  me  over  many  years.  That 
mystery  which  has  clouded  his  name  has  been  a 
sorrow  to  me  these  many  years,  and  I've  wanted  to 
clear  it  up,  without  seeing  my  way  clear  to  begin- 
ning until  now.  I  can  do  but  little  more  than 
contribute  to  the  expenses  of  this  search." 

"  We  will  arrange  that  matter  between  us/'  said 
Cathcart,  before  Dorison  could  interpose  a  word. 
Then,  turning  to  the  young  man,  he  said  :  "  Do 
you  now  go  straight  to  your  hotel  and  stay  there 
until  I  call  upon  you.  Before  you  begin  work  I 
must  find  some  means  to  get  that  shadow  off  your 
track." 

.With  this  he  hurried  off,  leaving  Dorison  and 
Nettleman  together,  astonished  at  his  abrupt  de- 
parture. 


CHAPTER    IV. 

"  THE    HEARING    EAR    AND    THE    SEEING    EYE." 

/^ATHCART  made  his  way  hastily  to  Pine  Street, 
Vy  where  he  entered  the  office  of  a  real  estate 
agent,  one  who  had  charge  of  the  Bleecker  Street 
property.  The  agent  was  willing  to  tell  all  he 
knew,  but  it  was  not  much.  About  two  weeks  pre- 
viously an  elderly  woman  had  called  upon  him  to 
rent  the  floor  where  the  murder  had  taken  place. 
She  had  said  that  the  necessity  of  earning  an 
income  had  only  recently  made  itself  felt,  and  she 
wanted  to  open  a  costumer's  business,  with  which, 
in  her  younger  days,  she  had  been  familiar  ;  that 
while  she  could,  if  it  were  required,  present  refer- 
ences, still,  as  she  had  for  twenty-five  years  been 
regarded  as  independent  in  circumstances,  she  did 
not  care  to  call  upon  them,  and  would  therefore  pay 
the  rent  quarterly  in  advance  ;  and  this  she  thought 
was  all  the  more  necessary  as  she  had  determined 
to  conduct  her  business  under  the  name  of  Madame 
Delamour ;  as  a  matter  of  fact  her  name  was 
Farish — Mrs.  Emma  Parish — and  her  address  was 
No.  — ,  East  Sixteenth  Street.  Who  the  young 
woman  reported  to  have  been  killed  in  her  place 
was,  he  did  not  know. 

40 


"  THE  HEARING  EAR  AND  SEEING  E  YE."     4* 

Upon  this  information,  Cathcart  determi-ned  to 
go  directly  to  Mrs.  Farish. 

On  nearing  the  house,  he  saw  a  group  of  people 
gathered  at  the  foot  of  the  steps  of  the  dwelling. 
A  policeman  stood  at  the  foot  of  the  steps,  and 
another  guarded  the  door  at  the  top. 

"  They  have  brought  the  body  of  the  girl  to  the 
house  of  Mrs.  Farish,"  he  muttered  to  himself. 
"  She  must  have  been  nearer  than  a  mere  employee." 

Reaching  the  foot  of  the  steps,  he  said  to  the 
policeman  :  "  Who  is  in  charge  ?  " 

"  Captain  Lawton." 

He  mounted  the  steps,  and  though  the  guardian 
of  the  door  stopped  him,  he  said,  "  I  am  on  this 
business  and  must  see  Captain  Lawton." 

He  stepped  through  the  door  and  encountered 
the  Captain  in  the  hall. 

"  They  have  brought  the  body  of  the  girl  here 
then?  "  he  said. 

The  Captain  stared  at  him,  and  without  reply 
pointed  to  the  door  leading  into  the  parlor. 

He  entered.  Accustomed  as  he  was  to  such 
scenes,  this  one  shocked  him. 

Oft  the  floor  lay  the  body  of  a  gray-haired  woman. 
As  in  the  other  case,  she  was  weltering  in  her  blood. 
The  two  had  been  killed  in  a  similar  manner.  The 
Captain  had  followed  him  to  the  door,  keenly  obser- 
vant of  him.  Turning,  he  said  : 

"Mrs.  Farish?" 

The  Captain  nodded  in  acquiescence. 

"  Madame  Delamour  ?  "  he  added. 


4*  THE  MAN  WITH  A   THUMB. 

An  expression  of  wonder  passed  over  the  detec- 
tive's face,  and  bidding  Cathcart  follow  him,  he  led 
the  way  upstairs  and  into  the  front  room  on  the 
second  floor,  closing  the  door  after  him. 

"  Now  then,"  he  said,  "  what  do  you  mean  by 
that  ? " 

"  By  what  ?  "  asked  Cathcart  in  return. 

"  By  calling  Mrs.  Farish,  Madame  Delamour." 

"  Because  Madame  Delamour  was  Mrs.  Farish." 

"  How  do  you  know  that  ?  " 

"  The  same  way  you  do." 

"  But  I  don't  know  it." 

"  One  of  your  men  called  on  the  agent  who  has 
charge  of  the  Bleecker  Street  property,  before  I  did, 
and  was  told  the  two  were  one,  as  I  was.  Madame 
Delamour,  an  assumed  name  to  conduct  the  busi- 
ness of  costuming  under — real  name,  Farish ;  ad- 
dress, this  house." 

"  Ah  !  I  was  called  here  before  he  could  report. 
But  who  are  you  ?  What  are  you  interfering  in 
this  case  for  ?  What  interest  have  you  in  it  ? " 

"  What !  "  said  Cathcart,  with  as  near  an  expres- 
sion of  surprise  as  he  could  achieve.  "  I  have  lived 
for  a  year  within  gunshot  of  your  headquarters;  and 
you  do  not  know  who  I  am  ?  " 

"  No,  I  don't,"  replied  the  Captain  sternly. 

"  Not  very  flattering  to  my  fame,"  said  Cathcart, 
as  he  extended  a  card  to  the  other.  "  That  was 
my  business  card  little  more  than  a  year  ago." 

The  Captain  read  the  card  with  an  unmistakable 
start  of  surprise,  while  a  slight  flush  overspread 


"  THE  HEARING  EAR  AND  SEEING  E  YE."     43 

his  face.  A  change  took  place  in  his  manner  at 
once. 

"  What !  "  he  cried.  "  You  are  the  celebrated 
Cathcart  ?  " 

The  Captain  might  well  have  felt  abashed. 
However  little  the  average  citizen  might  know  of 
the  fame  of  the  insignificant  appearing  man  who 
had  just  revealed  himself,  there  was  not  a  police 
officer,  of  the  upper  grade  at  least,  who  had  not 
heard  of  the  exploits  of  Cathcart,  known  to  crim- 
inals as  "  The  Devil  of  the  West,"  of  his  deeds  of 
courage  in  the  hunting  down  and  taking  of  des- 
peradoes in  the  most  desperate  parts  of  the  Western 
country.  His  reputation  for  courage  amounting  to 
recklessness,  for  shrewdness  unrivaled  in  its  results, 
for  ability  in  unraveling  tangled  knots,  and  for  per- 
sistency when  on  the  trail,  equaled  only  by  that  of 
a  sleuthhound,  was  known  wherever  policemen 
talked. 

"  I  knew  you  had  gone  out  of  business,"  said  the 
Captain  in  a  deferential  manner,  "but  not  that  you 
had  come  to  New  York." 

"  Yes,"  replied  Cathcart,  "  I've  made  my  pile, 
and  as  I've  passed  sixty  I  wanted  to  retire.  They 
would  not  let  me  alone  out  there,  so  I  came  back 
to  where  I  was  born  and  where  my  relatives  are." 

"  I  see  ;  are  you  on  this  business  ?" 

"No!  Perhaps!  That  is,  I  am  not  employed. 
It  is  a  nice  case.  If  I  touch  it,  it  is  for  the  fancy  of 
the  thing." 

"  What  do  you  know  about  it  ?" 


44  THE  MA.V   U'lTH  .1    THUMB. 

"  Only  what  I  have  told  you." 

"  The  two  murders  are  connected  ? " 

"  No  doubt  of  it  ;  killed  the  same  way.  When 
was  this  done  ?  " 

"  Last  night,  some  time  between  eight  and  eleven. 
The  servant  was  permitted  to  go  out  at  eight  and 
returned  at  eleven,  through  the  basement  door,  the 
key  of  which  she  carried.  No  lights  were  in  the 
house,  except  in  the  hall,  as  was  usual  when  she 
went  to  bed  after  the  family.  Supposing  Mrs. 
Parish  and  her  daughter,  the  only  inmates  of  the 
house,  had  retired,  she  turned  out  the  light  and 
went  to  her  room.  This  morning,  descending  the 
stairs  at  the  usual  hour,  she  made  the  discovery  of 
the  murder  and  gave  the  alarm." 

"Where  is  the  daughter  ?  " 

"  She  went  away  yesterday  forenoon — where  the 
girl  does  not  know.  She  has  not  returned  yet." 

"  The  young  woman  killed  in  Bleecker  Street." 

"  The  devil  !     Yes.     It  must  be." 

"  Let  us  find  that  out  first.     Whose  room  is  this  ? " 

"  Mrs.  Parish's." 

"  Then  we'll  look  here  first." 

Cathcart's  eyes  swept  the  room,  taking  in  every- 
thing with  one  comprehensive  glance.  Between 
the  windows  was  an  old-fashioned  bureau,  and  on 
either  side  of  the  glass  were  two  ledges  in  the  frame 
about  mid  way  of  the  glass.  On  each  a  photograph — 
one  of  an  elderly  woman, — the  other  of  a  younger 
one.  Cathcart  pounced  upon  them.  Taking  the 
one  of  the  younger  person  he  cried  : 


"  THE  HEA1UXG  EAR  .  I XD  SEEING  E  YE."      45 

"  There  she  is.  You  have  questioned  the  ser- 
vant." 

«  Yes." 

"  Let  us  have  her  up  again,  in  view  of  the  new 
phase  this  case  has  assumed." 

Upon  the  summons  of  the  Captain,  the  girl  came 
into  the  room,  worn,  trembling,  and  frightened. 

*  Whose  picture  is  that  ? "  asked  Cathcart. 

"  Miss  Anne's,"  replied  the  girl  in  a  faltering 
voice. 

"  Who  is  Miss  Anne  ?     Mrs.  Parish's  daughter  ?  " 

*  Yes,  sir." 

Cathcart  handed  the  picture  to  the  Captain, 
and  showing  the  other  to  the  girl,  asked  whose  that 
was. 

"  Mrs.  Farish,"  replied  the  girl. 

"  The  mother  of  Miss  Anne  ? " 

"  Yes,  sir." 

"  Madame  Delamour  ?  " 

"  Sir,"  said  the  girl,  wonderingly.  Cathcart 
neither  repeated  nor  explained  the  question,  but 
handed  this  photograph  to  the  Captain.  Then  bid- 
ding the  girl  to  be  seated,  he  in  a  kindly  tone  began 
to  question  her.  He  induced  her  to  tell  of  her  dis- 
covery of  the  murder,  and  without  interference  per- 
mitted her  to  exhaust  her  story  of  the  part  she  had 
played. 

"When  did  Miss  Anne  leave  the  house?"  he 
asked,  when  he  had  finished. 

"  After  breakfast  yesterday  morning." 

"  Was  that  her  usual  habit  ?  " 


46  THE  MAN  WITH  A   THUMB. 

"  She's  gone  away  after  breakfast  for  a  week, 
coming  home  at  six." 

"  Did  Mrs.  Farish  remain  at  home  during  this 
week?" 

"  No,  sir,  she  would  go  out  later  and  come  back 
earlier." 

"  Were  Mrs.  Farish  and  her  daughter  in  the 
habit  of  being  out  a  good  deal  ?  " 

"  No,  sir,  not  much.  About  three  weeks  ago  they 
began  to  be  out  a  good  deal,  but  not  regular  until 
a  week  ago." 

"  Did  Mrs.  Farish  have  any  business  ?" 

"  What  ?  "  asked  the  girl,  unable  to  understand. 

"  Did  Mrs.  Farish  have  to  earn  money  ?  " 

"  No,  sir  ;  she  owned  this  house  and  had  money 
in  the  bank." 

"  How  long  have  you  lived  with  her  ?  " 

"  Going  on  three  years.". 

"  Did  Mrs.  Farish  have  plenty  of  visitors — com- 
pany, you  know  ? " 

"  No,  sir.  Very  few.  Sometimes  a  neighbor 
would  call  in." 

"  Didn't  she  have  any  relatives  to  come  and  see 
her  ?  " 

"  She  hadn't  any.  I've  heard  say  she  hadn't  but 
one,  and  he  lived  out  West." 

"  Who  was  he  ? " 

"  She  didn't  say.  Once  in  a  long  time  a  young 
man  would  come  to  the  house." 

"  Who  was  he?" 

"  I  don't  know." 


"  THE  HEARING  EAR  AND  SEEING  E  YE."     47 

"  Didn't  you  ever  hear  anything  about  him  ?  " 

"  No,  sir." 

"  What  did  he  look  like  ? " 

"  I  hardly  know.  They  always  seemed  to  know 
when  he  was  coming,  and  Miss  Anne  watched 
for  him  and  let  him  in  herself.  They  always  took 
him  in  the  parlor  and  shut  the  door.  When  he 
went  away  Miss  Anne  always  looked  as  if  she'd 
bin  cryin'  and  Mrs.  Parish  was  down  like.  Once 
I  heard  Miss  Anne  say,  "  He's  got  no  mercy  ;  he's 
all  selfishness  ;  he'd  take  all  you've  got  and  leave 
nothing." 

"  What  did  Mrs.  Farish  say  ?  " 

"  Nothing."  .  - 

"  Can't  you  tell  me  what  this  young  man  looked 
like  ? " 

"  I  never  saw  his  face  but  once,  and  then  just  a 
glimpse.  I  was  coming  up  the  basement  stairs 
when  he  was  let  in,  and  saw  him  go  into  the  parlor. 
He  was  tall  and  slim,  and  had  brown  hair." 

"  How  often  did  he  come  here?  " 

"  About  once  in  three  months." 

"  How  long  did  he  stay  when  he  came  ?  " 

"  Sometimes  an  hour ;  sometimes  longer  ;  once 
he  stayed  all  afternoon.  I  laid  a  plate  for  him  for 
supper,  but  he  did  not  stay.  Just  before  he  went 
away  he  was  angry  and  talked  loud." 

"  Was  that  the  only  time  you  heard  him  angry  ?" 

"  Yes,  sir." 

"  Did  Mrs.  Farish  and  her  daughter  go  out  visit- 
ing?" 


48  THE  MAN  WITH  A    THUMB. 

"  I  never  knew  them  do  so.  They  lived  by 
themselves." 

"  Did  they  go  to  church  ?  " 

"  Every  Sunday,  twice  a  clay,  down  here  to  the 
church  on  the  corner.  The  minister,  Mr.  Carman, 
used  to  come  once  in  a  while  to  see  them." 

"  Was  Mrs.  Farish  pretty  comfortable  about 
money  ? " 

"  She  seemed  to  be,  sir." 

All  this  time  the  Captain  had  been  a  close 
listener,  not  interfering  in  the  examination.  Cath- 
card  having  finished,  he  dismissed  the  girl. 

"  What  do  you  make  of  it  ? "  asked  the  Captain. 

"  Nothing.  The  case  is  as  dark  as  night.  That 
young  man  is  worth  looking  after." 

"  Yes.  I  had  got  that  point  out  of  the  girl 
before.  You  got  two  additional  ones — that  he 
was  angry  the  day  he  stayed  so  long  ;  and  that 
the  daughter  cried  and  the  mother  was  sad  when- 
ever he  came.  I  have  searched  the  house  system- 
atically from  top  to  bottom  and  found  nothing  to 
throw  any  light  on  the  deed  or  the  people, — no  let- 
ters or  documents  in  the  house." 

"  The  place  in  Bleecker  Street  wants  a  thorough 
search  now." 

"  It  will  have  it  to-day." 

"  If  that  young  man  is  all  right,  he'll  turn  up  of 
his  own  accord  ;  if  crooked,  he  wont." 

"  His  failure  to  turn  up  will  make  the  more  rea- 
son for  looking  for  him.  But  how  and  where  to 
begin  the  search  for  him  ?  " 


"  THE  HEARING  EAR  AND  SEEING  E  YE."      49 

To  this  the  old  detective  made  no  reply,  but 
thrusting  his  hands  in  his  vest-pockets,  walked  out 
of  the  room,  and  descending  the  stairs  entered  the 
parlor,  where  the  body  lay,  carefully  noting  every 
article  in  the  room  and  their  disposition.  His 
keen  eyes  perceived  something  lying  on  the  floor 
near  and  partially  under  the  body.  He  beckoned 
to  the  Captain  standing  at  the  door  and  pointed  to 
it.  The  officer,  bending  down,  said  : 

"  Ah,  a  glove — a  man's  glove." 

"  A  clue,"  said  Cathcart. 


CHAPTER  V. 

"  LETS    IN    NEW    LIGHT    THROUGH    CHINKS." 

THE  Captain  stretched  forth  his  hand  to  pick  up 
the  glove,  but  Cathcart  restrained  him.  Look- 
ing about  the  room  he  found  a  small  straw  fan. 
Carefully  lifting  the  glove  at  the  wrist,  he  skillfully 
thrust  the  fan  under  the  glove  so  that  it  rested 
upon  the  fan  without  its  form  having  been  dis- 
turbed. 

"The  hand  of  the  man  that  will  fit  this  glove  is 
the  hand  of  the  man  who  did  this  deed,"  said  Cath- 
cart, straightening  up  and  carrying  the  glove  into 
the  light  to  examine  it.  "  Criminals  have  been 
brought  to  justice  from  a  clue  less  than  this." 

The  Captain  was  deeply  interested. 

"  The  hand  this  glove  fitted,"  continued  Cathcart, 
"  is  not  that  of  a  working-man,  yet  one  whose  bones 
are  naturally  large,  and  whose  knuckles  and  joints 
are  prominent.  See  how  large  and  prominent  that 
second  knuckle  is.  Moreover,  the  man  who  wore 
this  glove  is  a  nice  dresser — careful  about  his  ap- 
pearance and  the  fit  of  his  clothes— a  bit  of  a  dandy. 
He  either  is  or  tries  to  be  a  gentleman.  Nor  does 
he  spare  cost  in  his  clothes.  You  see  the  kid  is  of 
the  best  quality,  but  this"  is  the  point — that  glove 
was  made  only  for  the  hand  that  wore  it.  See ! 
50 


' '  LE  TS  AV  XE  }V  LI  Gil  T."  5 I 

The  peculiarity  of  the  hand  is  the  thumb.  It  is 
long  and  bent  backwards  at  the  end  ;  it  is  out  of 
all  proportion  in  its  size  and  length  to  the  fingers. 
It  is  almost  a  deformity.  You  might  examine  the 
hands  of  all  the  men  in  the  city  and  not  find  one 
like  it.  Yet  see  how  perfectly  the  glove  has  fitted 
the  hand — every  finger  exactly  filled,  the  thumb 
also — not  a  wrinkle  in  the  glove.  That  glove  was 
not  got  by  accident,  nor  picked  out  of  a  general 
stock  in  a  store.  One  so  chosen,  if  it  fitted  the 
thumb,  would  have  been  too  large  for  the  fingers  ; 
if  it  fitted  the  fingers,  the  thumb  couldn't  have 
gotten  in.  You  wanted  to  know  where  to  begin 
your  search  for  the  young  man  who  called  at  stated 
intervals.  There  you  are.  Take  care  of  that 
glove.  Put  a  bell-glass  over  it  ;  it's  precious." 

The  Captain,  either  because  he  was  much  im- 
pressed by  the  old  detective,  or  because  he  was  too 
great  for  jealousy  and  was  anxious  for  all  the  aid 
he  could  secure  in  a  dark  case,  took  the  glove  and 
the  advice  with  good  grace. 

Cathcart,  bending  over  the  body,  saw  something 
calling  for  greater  attention,  and  crossing  to  the 
other  side,  kneeled  down  and  narrowly  examined 
the  body. 

"  Robbery,"  he  muttered.  "  Something  has  been 
torn  from  her  breast/jeither  before  or  after  she  was 
murdered." 

The  Captain  nodded  : 

"  I  was  waiting  to  see  whether  my  conclusion 
would  be  yours,"  he  said.  "  But  mark  you,  she  has 


52  THE  MAN  WITH  A    THUMB. 

money  and  jewels  on  her  person.  They  have  not 
been  taken." 

"  Valuable  papers  perhaps,"  said  Cathcart. 

At  this  moment  there  were  the  sounds  of  many 
feet  at  the  door.  The.  officer  passed  the  word  that 
the  coroner  and  his  jury  were  come  to  view  the  body. 

The  two  detectives  retired  to  a  rear  room,  reach- 
ing which  Cathcart  turned  suddenly  upon  the 
Captain  : 

"  You  have  that  man  who  first  entered  the 
Bleecker  Street  room  shadowed  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

"Why?" 

"  There  is  something  suspicious  about  him.  I 
want  to  know  who  he  is  ?  " 

"  Do  you  connect  him  with  the  murder  ?  " 

"  No  ;  yet  he  seemed  to  get  into  those  rooms 
very  quickly.  There  was  a  familiarity  with  the 
house  about  that." 

"  It  was  all  explained." 

"  Yes,  but — well,  he  had  something  to  conceal." 

"  He  had.     He  gave  you  a  false  name." 

The  Captain  wondered  how  this  sharp  old  man 
had  managed  to  learn  so  much  in  so  short  a  time. 

"  Do  you  recollect  the  Dorison  case  of  eight 
years  ago  ;  "  asked  Cathcart. 

"  I  ought  to,"  replied  the  Captain.  "  It  was  the 
very  first  important  affair  I  was  engaged  on.  It 
was  a  strange  case  and  came  to  nothing." 

"  That  man  is  John  Dorison — the  son,"  said  Cath- 
cart, watching  keenly  the  effect  of  his  words. 


"LETS  IN  NB W  LIGHT."  53 

The  Captain  was  evidently  astonished  ;  he  said  : 

"  But  he  gave  the  name  of  Dudley  last  night  ?  " 

"That  is  the  name  he  has  been  known  by  since  he 
left  the  city  eight  years  ago.  He  returned  yester- 
day morning  and  revealed  himself  to  one  of  his 
father's  old  friends — old  man  Nettleman." 

"  Yes  "  interrupted  the  Captain,  "  the  man  he 
talked  with  in  the  saloon." 

"  The  same." 

"  But,"  said  the  Captain,  loth  to  give  up  a  possi- 
ble clue,  "  how  do  you  account  for  his  extreme 
familiarity  with  the  house  in  Bleecker  Street,  and 
his  going  to  that  particular  house  on  the  first  night 
of  his  return  ? " 

"  He  was  born  there.  Idle  curiosity  while  out 
for  fresh  air  took  him  to  look  at  the  house  of  his 
birth,  since  he  was  in  the  neighborhood." 

"  True,"  mused  the  Captain,  "  that  was  Dorison's 
house.  I  had  forgotten  it." 

"  Having  given  you  this  information  concerning 
him,  and  standing  ready  to  give  you  any  more  you 
may  want,  I  ask  you  to  take  the  shadow  off." 

"  Why  ?  " 

"  I  have  undertaken  to  discover  the  mystery  of 
that  unfinished  letter." 

"  You  believe  the  son  then,  and  not  the  father  ?  " 

"  I  believe  the  son  is  innocent  of  what  appear  to 
be  charges  against  him  in  a  letter  death  prevented 
the  father  from  finishing." 

"  It  will  be  difficult  to  trace  the  matter  after  this 
lapse  of  time." 


54  THE  MAN. WITH  A   THUMB. 

"It  will." 

"  Our  people  do  not  agree  with  your  view  of  the 
case." 

"Possibly.  Was  anything  ever  found  in  the 
young  man's  life  to  give  color  to  the  charge  ?  " 

"  No  ;  that  was  the  puzzler.  But  the  charges 
were  distinct  and  unequivocal.  I  will  give  you  a 
copy  of  the  report  in  the  case." 

"  Thanks  ;  that  will  be  a  help.  But  I  want  that 
shadow  off.  It  will  embarrass  my  work." 

"  I  will  call  him  off  at  once,  if  you  will  be  respon- 
sible for  your  man's  appearance  when  wanted." 

"  I  will  be.  In  the  mean  time  treat  my  commu- 
nication— that  is,  as  to  the  man's  identity — as  con- 
fidential." 

"  It  will  be  so  treated.  But  you  had  better  help 
us  in  this  matter." 

"  No.     You  are  competent  enough." 

"  It  is  a  case  dark  enough  to  stagger  the  most 
competent." 

The  bustle  in  the  adjoining  room  indicated  that 
the  coroner  and  his  jury  had  completed  their 
investigation  of  the  scene  of  the  murder,  and  were 
departing.  The  two  detectives  left  the  room  they 
had  retired  to,  and  the  Captain  accompanied  Cath- 
cart  to  the  door.  As  they  stood  on  the  top  step, 
the  Captain  said  : 

"  Mr.  Cathcart,  I  have  a  foreboding  of  failure  in 
this  affair.  I  wish  I  could  persuade  you  to  work 
with  us." 

The  old  detective  looked  down  upon  the  throng 
for  a  moment  or  two,  and  replied  : 


"LETS  IN  NE W  LIGHT."  5 5 

"  I  may  work  on  the  case.  Its  very  difficulties 
attract  me.  But  I  cannot  work  with  any  one.  I 
have  had  assistants,  obedient  to  my  orders,  never 
associates,  whose  views  I  was  compelled  to  con- 
sider. It  will  be  better  for  us  to  work  apart.  We 
can  meet  from  time  to  time  and  compare  notes.  I 
cannot  work  any  other  way." 

The  Captain  shook  hands  warmly  with  the  old 
man,  saying  that  so  much  was  better  than  nothing. 
Cathcart  descended  the  steps  with  his  hands  in  his 
vest-pockets. 

He  sought  the  minister  of  the  church  attended 
by  Mrs.  Parish  and  her  daughter,  without  delay. 
Presenting  his  request  to  see  Mr.  Carman  upon  an 
important  matter,  he  was  ushered  into  the  parlor. 
Mr.  Carman  came  to  him  promptly,  and  a  single 
glance  sufficed  to  show  the  old  detective  that  the 
minister  was  much  agitated. 

"  Sir,"  he  said,  "  if  your  business  can  be  delayed 
I  would  like  it.  I  have  but  this  moment  learned 
that  one  of  my  parishioners  has  been  foully  mur- 
dered. It  is  my  duty  to  at  once  visit  the  daughter, 
and  offer  her  such  consolation  as  I  can." 

"It  is  about  that  murder  I  have  called,"  replied 
Cathcart.  "  Permit  me  to  urge  you  to  sit  down. 
Indeed,  permit  me  to  urge  you  to  prepare  yourself 
against  another  shock." 

The  minister,  impressed  by  the  manner  of  the 
old  detective,  did  as  he  was  requested. 

"  Now  that  you  are  seated,"  continued  Cathcart, 
"  let  me  tell  you  that  your  visit  can  be  of  no  use. 
There  is  no  daughter'to  console." 


56  THE  MAN  WITH  A   THUMB. 

"  I-do  not  understand  you,"  wonderingly  replied 
Mr.  Carman. 

"  This  is  the  shock  you  must  brace  up  against. 
In  another  part  of  the  city  last  night,  the  daughter 
was  also  murdered." 

"  Oh,  my  merciful  Father  ?  "  cried  the  minister. 
"  Who  are  you  who  brings  such  dreadful  tidings?" 

"  I  am  a  detective  seeking  the  cause  and  the 
perpetrator  of  the  double  murder.  The  case  is 
shrouded  in  darkness  and  no  reason  as  yet  appears 
for  these  deeds.  But  there  was  one,  and  in  an 
inquiry  into  the  lives  and  antecedents  of  these 
women  we  hope  to  discover  it." 

But  the  good  old  minister  was  more  anxious  to 
ask  than  to  answer  questions,  and  he  poured  forth 
a  torrent  of  them.  When  his  curiosity  was  satisfied 
the  detective  began. 

"  How  long  have  you  known  these  women  ?  " 

"  Since  I  have  been  pastor  of  this  church,  now 
some  twelve  years.  Both  mother  and  daughter 
were  enrolled  members  of  the  congregation  when  I 
came  to  it." 

"  Did  you  know  anything  of  their  surroundings  ?" 

"  No.  I  knew  her  as  a  widow,  of  a  small  prop- 
erty, amply  sufficient  for  their  modest  life.  They 
were  much  respected  in  the  church." 

"  Did  you  learn  anything  of  their  antecedents  ?  " 

"  Why,  no  ;  when  I  assumed  charge,  their  places 
in  the  congregation  were  fixed,  and  I  accepted  them 
at  the  valuation  placed  upon  them  by  the  other 
members.  They  were  unobtrusive  people,  reserved, 


"  LE TS  IN  NE  W  LIGHT."  5 7 

not  seeking  society,  talking  not  at  all  of  them- 
selves. I  made  regular  pastoral  calls  upon  them. 
They  took  little  part  in  the  social  side  of  the 
church,  but  were  not  remiss  in  their  duties." 

"  Did  they  have  any  intimacies  with  any  one  in 
the  church  ?" 

"  I  can  recall  none  that  were  noticeable." 

"  Did  not  the  young  lady  mingle  with  the  young 
people  ? " 

"  She  did  when  I  first  came,  but  when  she  was 
about  twenty,  say  six  years  ago,  she  abruptly  with- 
drew herself." 

"  Can  you  recall  anything  within  your  knowledge 
which  at  any  time  seemed  uncommon,  or  out  of  the 
way,  mysterious,  so  to  speak  ?  "  asked  Cathcart. 

The  minister  thought  a  few  moments. 

"  Well,  sir,"  he  said  at  length.  "  I  have  often 
said  to  my  wife  that  Mrs.  Parish  gave  me  the  im- 
pression of  a  woman  with  a  history.  To  me, 
though  others  laughed  at  the  idea,  there  was  a  sug- 
gestion of  sadness  under  what  was  normally  a 
bright,  cheerful  disposition.  I  do  not  know  if  I 
make  myself  plain.  Under  a  sweet,  equable  tem- 
per, there  was  to  me  signs  of  a  latent  grief,  settled 
to  be  sure,  but  the  cause  of  constant  sorrow. 
Shortly  after  I  came  here,  I  remarked  this  to  her. 
She  did  not  seem  well  pleased,  but  answered  that 
in  her  young  days  she  had  passed  through  a  period 
of  deep  sorrow,  and  she  supposed  it  had  left  its 
impressions  upon  her.  On  another  occasion  when 
Mrs.  Parish  was  calling  at  the  parsonage,  my  wife, 


$8  THE  MAN  WITH  A   THUMB. 

referring  to  a  case  just  then  occupying  a  great  deal 
of  space  in  the  public  press,  bore  down  heavily  on 
the  woman  involved,  when  Mrs.  Parish,  much 
agitated  and  evincing  an  impatience  foreign  to  her, 
cried  out  to  my  wife  to  be  merciful.  '  There  are 
lives,'  she  said,  '  that  God  alone  can  see  the  inno- 
cence of,  but  which  a  censorious  world  would  pro- 
nounce evil?'  Then  she  added  these  singular 
words,  addressing  my  wife  :  ' '  Judge  not,  lest  ye 
be  judged.'  Your  condemnation  of  this  poor 
woman  rings  in  my  ears  as  a  condemnation  of 
myself.'  My  wife  and  I  often  talked  of  this  inci- 
dent, but  could  make  nothing  of  it.  Again,  eight 
years  ago,  I  called  at  her  house  and  found  her  in 
great  distress,  and  though  I  endeavored  to  console 
her,  she  would  say  nothing  as  to  its  cause.  At 
that  time  she  put  on  mourning,  which  she  wore 
ever  after,  and  it  was  at  that  time  that  the  daughter 
withdrew  from  association  with  the  young  people. 
This  is  all  I  can  recollect,  I  think. — Stop,  there  is 
one  more  incident,  trivial  perhaps,  but  I  will  tell  it. 
One  day  about  three  years  ago  I  had  been  from 
home  in  attendance  upon  a  funeral,  and  returning 
was  told  that  Mrs.  Parish  had  been  awaiting  me  in 
the  study  a  long  time.  Going  to  her  I  found  her 
in  great  trouble.  She  said,  however,  that  though 
she  had  come  for  advice  upon  a  matter  giving  her 
great  pain,  she  had  reflected  while  waiting  and  had 
reached  the  conclusion  that  it  were  better  for  all 
concerned  to  say  nothing ;  that  she  would  bear 
this  new  trouble  as  she  had  borne  other  troubles  all 
her  life,  alone  ;  and  she  went  away." 


"  LE  TS  IN  NE  W  LIGHT."  59 

The  old  detective  had  listened  most  intently,  never 
interposing  a  word,  gesture,  or  expression,  though 
his  keen  bright  eyes  gave  heed  to  everything. 

"Of  what  did  her  family  consist  all  these  years?" 
he  asked. 

"Herself  and  daughter.  I  once  heard  her  refer 
to  the  boyhood  of  a  son.  But  from  her  speech  I 
presumed  he  had  died  young." 

Cathcart  asked  and  received  tht  names  and 
addresses  of  some  of  the  older  members  of  the  church, 
whom  he  next  sought  in  inquiry.  He  learned  little 
from  them,  for  they  could  give  him  even  less  than 
Mr.  Carman.  Two  points,  however,  he  obtained  in 
addition.  One  old  lady  recollected  that  when  Mrs. 
Farish  first  came  among  them  she  had  a  son,  but 
that  he  disappeared  when  about  eighteen — her 
understanding  being  that  he  had  gone  to  the  care 
of  a  relative  in  another  city.  The  daughter  of 
another  old  member  contributed  the  fact  that  during 
the  past  three  years,  she  had  seen  Anne  Farish  walk- 
ing, on  three  different  occasions,  in  Union  Square 
with  a  young  man — the  same  young  man.  She  had 
noted  and  remembered  it,  since  it  was  the  only  time 
Anne  had  been  know  to  be  in  the  society  of  one  of 
the  other  sex,  and  also  from  the  fact  that  she  seemed 
to  be  greatly  troubled  on  each  occasion,  and  further 
that  the  young  man  was  most  fashionably  clad  and 
had  the  air  of  being  fast. 

The  day  was  well  spent  when  Cathcart  finished 
these  inquiries,  and  he  now  recollected  he  had 
neither  lunched  nor  dined.  He  hurried  to  the 
Grand  Central  Hotel. 


CHAPTER  VI. 

WEAVING    A    THEORY. 

D ORISON  was  wandering  about  the  office  of  his 
hotel  in  an  aimless  manner,  inexpressibly 
bored  by  his^compulsory  inaction.  When  he  saw 
Cathcart,  his  face  lighted  up,  and  he  greeted  the 
old  man  effusively. 

"How  long  am  I  to  remain  a  prisoner  here,"  he 
asked. 

"No  longer,"  replied  Cathcart.  "The  shadow 
has  been  removed  and  you  are  free  to  come  and  go 
at  your  will.  Come  and  dine  with  me.  I  want  to 
talk  over  the  events  of  the  day  with  you." 

As  much  pleased  as  if  he  had  been  released  from 
actual  imprisonment,  Dorison  accompanied  the  old 
detective  to  a  quiet  restaurant  in  University  Place, 
where  they  could  secure  themselves  against  inter- 
ruption. While  they  dined  Carthcart  detailed  to 
the  young  man  the  occurrences  of  the  day.  Intensely 
interested,  and  shocked  as  he  was  over  the  second 
murder,  Dorison  could  not  but  wonder  at  the  cool 
matter-of-fact  manner  in  which  Cathcart  recited 
the  event  of  the  death  of  Mrs.  Parish.  He  evinced 
neither  agitation  nor  unusual  interest,  evidently 
treating  it  in  his  mind  as  incidental  to  the  search 
he  had  set  out  upon.  The  impression  produced 
60 


WEAVING  A    THEORY.  6 1 

upon  Dorison  was  not  an  agreeable  one,  for  the  old 
man  was  apparently  so  heartless  and  indifferent, 
showing  neither  horror  over  the  deed  nor  conscious- 
ness of  its  enormity.  They  seemed  only  to  be  puz- 
zles which  he  must  work  out.  The  while,  however, 
Dorison  admired  the  power  of  lucid  statement  pos- 
sessed by  the  old  man.  The  recital  consumed  the 
time  of  the  dinner.  When  the  coffee  and  cigars 
were  brought,  Cathcart  said: 

"Now  I  want  to  reason  and  reason  aloud.  If 
you  discover  a  flaw  in  my  argument  put  your  finger 
upon  it  at  once,  else  do  not  interrupt  me.  Now  to 
begin:  A  woman  named-Farish,  who  has  a  daughter, 
living  in  Sixteenth  Street  for  twenty  years  in  the 
same  house,  which  she  owns,  having  no  occupation 
and  subsisting  on  her  money,  suddenly  changes  her 
mode  of  life,  and,  under  the  assumed  name  of 
Madame  Delamour,  rents  the  parlor  floor  of  a  house 
in  Bleecker  Street  and  opens  a  costumer's  business. 

"Inference  :  A  change  has  taken  place  in  her 
financial  affairs,  necessitating  the  earning  of  an 
income  after  twenty  years  of  comparative  indepen- 
dence. 

"The  business  is  opened  one  day,  and  on  the 
night  of  the  next  day  the  daughter  is  found  dead, 
stabbed  in  the  neck  in  such  a  manner  as  to  sever 
the  carotid  artery.  On  the  same  night,  in  her  own 
house  in  Sixteenth  Street,  Mrs.  Farish  alias  Madame 
Delamour,  is  found  dead,  under  the  similar  circum- 
stances— stabbed  in  such  a  manner  as  to  sever  the 
carotid  artery. 


6 2  THE  MAN  WITH  A   THUMB. 

"Inference:  The  two  murders  were  committed 
by  the  same  hand;  the  methods  of  taking  life  are 
the  same;  the  murdered  women  bore  the  relation  of 
mother  and  daughter.  To  suppose  that  these  two, 
bearing  to  each  other  the  relation  they  did,  were 
killed  by  different  persons  for  different  reasons,  is 
to  admit  the  existence  of  a  coincidence  without 
parallel  in  the  history  of  crime. 

"Inference  second :  The  murder  was  committed 
by  a  man  who  has  some  knowledge  of  anatomy  and 
some  surgical  skill,  as  is  argued  by  the  precision 
with  which  these  arteries  were  found  and  cut. 

"A  young  man,  whose  attention  is  attracted  to 
the  possibility  of  wrong-doing  in  the  Bleecker  Street 
house,  forces  his  way  into  the  room  occupied  as  a 
costumer's  place,  and  finds  in  the  fingers  of  the 
murdered  girl  a  torn  scrap  of  paper,  and  on  the  floor 
near  by  another  torn  scrap,  both  covered  by  writing 
in  the  same  hand,  the  scraps  suggesting  that  they 
were  torn  from  letters  wrested  from  the  hands  of 
the  girl.  The  police  discovered  that  the  dress  of 
Mrs.  Farish  is  violently  torn  in  the  breast  with  all  the 
appearance  of  something  having  been  dragged  from 
it.  Valuables  and  money  on  the  person  are  not  taken. 

''Inference:  The  murderer  desired  to  possess 
himself  of  certain  documents  or  papers  held  by  the 
murdered  woman ;  hence  the  motive  of  the  crime. 

"This  young  man  also  discovers  the  portrait  and 
ring  of  Reuben  Dorison  in  the  room,  and  determines 
the  writing  on  the  torn  scraps  of  paper  to  be  in 
the  hand  of  Reuben  Dorison. 


WE  A  VING  A    THEOR  Y.  63 

"Inference :  In  some  way  Reuben  Dorison,  dead 
eight  years,  was  connected  with  the  woman  Farish 
and  her  daughter.  Query,  how?  Not  at  present 
clear  or  ascertainable. 

"Inquiry  elicits  these  facts:  The  two  women  live 
quiet,  regular  and  proper  lives;  are  constant  in 
attendance  upon  church  and  their  duties;  they  have 
no  intimate  friends,  few  callers,  and  no  social  rela- 
tions; at  stated  intervals,  a  young  man,  tall,  slim, 
with  brown  hair,  whose  visits  leave  the  mother  sad 
and  the  daughter  in  tears,  calls  upon  them ;  by  her 
own  admission  the  mother  in  her  younger  days  has 
passed  through  a  period  of  great  sorrow,  sorrow  so 
great  as  to  influence  her  after  life ;  on  two  occasions 
she  is  known  to  be  in  deep  distress — once  eight 
years  ago,  when  she  refused  to  explain  the  cause, 
but  immediately  dresses  in  mourning,  and  the 
daughter  withdraws  from  all  association  with  young 
people;  the  other  three  years  ago,  when  seeking  her 
minister  for  advice,  the  mother  thinks  better  of  it 
and  says  she  will  meet  this  trouble  as  she  has  met  her 
other  troubles,  alone.  Reuben  Dorison  died  eight 
years  ago,  coincidental  with  the  appearance  of  Mrs. 
Farish  in  mourning.  Inquiry  also  elicits  that  when 
the  minister's  wife  is,  in  the  presence  of  Mrs.  Farish, 
condemning  a  woman  for  irregularity  of  life,  Mrs. 
Farish  cries  out  in  protest,  saying  that  the  con- 
demnation of  the  woman  rings  in  her  ears  as  a  con- 
demnation of  herself. 

"Inference:  There  was  something — a  fault,  a 
misfortune,  or  a  crime  in  the  life  of  the  mother, 


64  THE  MAN  WITH  A   THUMB. 

with  which  the  caller  at  stated  intervals,  and  pre- 
sumably Reuben  Dorison,  is  connected. 

"  Inquiry  also  elicits  the  fact  that  the  daughter, 
who  has  no  association  with  young  people,  is  seen 
on  three  different  occasions  walking  in  Union 
Square,  evidently 'greatly  troubled,  with  a  young 
man,  tall  and  slim,  of  fast  appearance,  dressed  in 
extreme  fashion. 

"  Inference :  The  caller  at  staged  intervals  and  the 
walker  in  Union  Square  are  one  and  the  same. 

"  Near  the  body  of  the  mother  was  found  a  man's 
glove,  the  form  of  which  shows  it  was  worn  by  a  man 
with  a  large  hand,  prominent  knuckles  and  joints, 
whose  thumb  was  disproportionately  long.  This 
glove  was  cut  and  made  to  fit  only  the  hand  that 
wore  it,  an  indication  that  the  wearer  was  a  man 
exceedingly  particular  as  to  his  personal  appearance 
and  nice  as  to  his  apparel. 

"  Inference  :  First,  as  the  walker  in  Union  Square 
was  noticeable  because  of  his  fine  dress,  and  as  the 
wearer  of  the  glove  was,  as  it  indicates,  careful  as 
to  his  appearance,  the  wearer  of  the  glove,  the 
walker  in  Union  Square,  and  the  caller  at  stated 
intervals  were  one  and  the  same.  Second,  as  the 
glove  was  found  close  to  the  body  of  the  mother 
after  her  death,  and  as  one  caller  on  the  family 
was  the  incident  of  a  month,  this  wearer  of  the 
glove  was  the  murderer  of  the  mother.  Third,  if 
of  the  mother,  then  of  the  daughter. 

"  One  more  point  :  Inasmuch  as  after  the  two 
women  engaged  in  the  costuming  business  it  was 


WEA  VING  A    THEOR  Y.  65 

the  habit  of  the  mother  to  return  home  before  the 
daughter,  and  the  daughter  to  return  at  six,  and 
as  the  servant  left  Mrs.  Farish  alone  at  eight,  there 
is  reason  to  believe  that  the  daughter  was  mur- 
dered first  and  the  mother  after. 

"  Now,  as  to  a  theory  :  Mrs.  Farish  had  been 
connected  with  some  event,  the  secret  of  which  she 
jealously  guarded,  in  her  early  life,  which  was 
criminal.  She  had  documents  relating  to  this 
event,  possession  of  which  she  shared  with  her 
daughter.  These  documents  either  implicated  a 
young  man  who  called  upon  her  at  stated  intervals, 
or  which,  being  in  his  hands,  would  prove  of  such 
value,  that  to  possess  them  he  could  bring  himself 
to  commit  murder.  With  these  events  Reuben 
Dorison  is  associated,  since  the  only  glimpse  of 
any  part  of  them  we  have  obtained,  shows  his 
handwriting.  The  young  man  for  years  persecu- 
ted the  two  women  to  obtain  the  papers,  being 
always  refused  and  placated  with  gifts  of  money  to 
such  an  extent,  that  in  time  the  independence  of 
Mrs.  Farish  was  so  impaired  that  she  was -com- 
pelled to  resume  a  business  she  had  many  years 
before  been  engaged  in.  He  had  become  desperate 
in  finding  that  he  could  neither  obtain  the  docu- 
ments nor  any  more  money,  the  latter  fact  being 
made  clear  to  him  when  he  learns  that  Mrs.  Farish 
has  gone  into  business.  Believing  these  documents 
to  be  in  the  possession  of  the  young  woman,  he 
visited  the  Bleecker  Street  apartment,  and  finding 
no  other  way  to  obtain  them,  murders  her  and 


66  THE  MAN  WITH  A    THUMB. 

seizes  them.  He  finds,  however,  that  he  has  not 
all,  and  he  goes  to  the  Sixteenth  Street  house  to 
see  the  mother.  He  demands  and  is  refused  them. 
He  takes  theni  by  force,  and  he  now  knows  that  Mrs. 
Farish  will  unerringly  attribute  the  murder  of  the 
daughter  to  him,  and  as  a  matter  of  self-preserva- 
tion, he  kills  the  mother. 

"  We  have  the  motive  for  the  deed.  The  crimi- 
nal is  a  tall,  slim  man,  with  brown  hair,  who 
dresses  in  extreme  fashion,  who  is  dissipated,  and 
who  can  be  recognized  by  a  large  hand,  with 
prominent  joints  and  knuckles,  and  whose  thumb 
is  so  disproportionately  large  and  long  as  to  be 
almost  a  deformity.  He  is  a  surgeon  or  has 
studied  surgery.  To  find  that  man  is  to  find  the 
murderer,  and,  in  my  judgment,  is  to  find  the  secret 
of  that  unfinished  letter  of  your  father's." 

The  old  detective  looked  into  the  face  of  Dori- 
son  for  the  first  time  since  he  had  begun  to  reason. 
Upon  it  was  expressed  excitement  and  admiration. 
Dorison's  eyes  burned  brightly,  his  lips  were 
parted,  high  color  was  in  his  cheeks,  and  he  breathed 
heavily.  Something  of  the  fever  of  the  chase  was 
upon  him. 

"It  is  wonderful!  It  is  wonderful!"  he  breathed 
out,  rather  than  articulated.  "It  is  profound,  subtle 
reasoning,  and  all  from  such  meagre  and  insufficient 
facts.  It  is  reasoned  out  to  a  conclusion." 

"No,"  said  the  old  detective,  "it  is  only  the  first 
theory,  and  may  be  utterly  overturned  by  the  first 
real,  substantial  fact  hit  upon." 


WEAVING  A   THEORY.  67 

"I  cannot  believe  it,"  protested  Dorison.  "Your 
conclusions  are  too  strong." 

"But  my  premises  may  be  weak,"  persisted  Cath- 
cart.  "Don't  lean  too  heavily  upon  a  theory.  The 
value  of  one  is  only  that  it  gives  you  a  basis  from 
which  to  work.  The  danger  of  a  theory  is  that  you 
will  cling  to  it,  refusing  in  its  interest  to  recognize 
the  plain  facts  under  your  nose.  The  difference 
between  a  shrewd  detective  and  a  dull  one  is  this:  the 
latter  becomes  a  slave  to  his  theory  and  it  controls 
him;  the  former  treats  it  with  suspicion  and  aban- 
dons it  whenever  facts  justify  such  abandonment. 
But  even  working  on  the  lines  of  an  erroneous 
theory,  you  are  more  apt  to  hit  upon  the  true  facts 
that  when  you  are  working  wild  without  plan  or 
purpose.  There  is  always  some  truth  in  every 
theory.  The  trouble  with  this  theory  of  mine  is 
that  it  is  too  natural  and  plausible.  I  always  dis- 
trust that  which  seems  natural  in  the  beginning  of  a 
dark  case." 

Dorison  was  plainly  disappointed  and  puzzled  at 
the  manner  in  which  the  old  detective  treated  his 
own  theory.  He  did  not  speak  for  some  moments, 
and  then  he  suddenly  ejaculated : 

"If  I  had  so  little  confidence  in  a  theory  that  I 
had  spent  so  much  pain  and  labor  in  building  up, 
I  would  not  work  on  it." 

"Yes,"  calmly  replied  the  old  detective.  "That 
is  just  what  an  inexperienced  man  like  you  would 
do.  But  that  is  what  neither  you  nor  myself  will. 


68  THE  MAN  WITH  A    THUMB. 

We  will  go  to  work  on  it,  and  your  work  will  begin 
very  soon." 

Dorison  looked  up  interested. 

"My  plans,"  continued  Cathcart,  "have  been 
materially  changed  by  the  events  of  to-day,  espec- 
ially as  to  your  work.  It  is  my  belief  that  the  owner 
of  that  glove  is  to  be  found  in  the  places  frequented 
by  young  men  of  fashion.  And  it  is  in  those  places 
I  want  you  to  look  for  him." 

"That  I  presume  I  can  do  without  especial 
shrewdness?" 

"I  do  not  intend  to  give  you  my  reasons  for  the 
plans  I  have  formed.  Reasons  I  always  keep  to 
myself.  But,  for  reasons  of  my  own,  I  want  you  to 
be  informed  upon  the  ways  of  the  young  men  of  the 
day  and  the  young  men  themselves.  To  do  this 
you  must  know  them,  associate  with  them,  and  to 
a  certain  extent  be  one  of  them.  Hence,  I  want  to 
set  you  on  foot  as  soon  as  possible  as  a  young  man  of 
fashion  about  town.  Your  business  you  are  to  keep 
closely  to  yourself;  never  lisping  it  to  any  one,  and 
you  will  not  be  required  to  do  any  work  which  will 
betray  it.  You  have  been  a  young  man  of  fashion 
once;  you  can  easily  resume  the  role." 

"I  have  no  desire  to  do  so  now,"  replied  Dori- 
son, by  no  means  pleased  with  the  line  marked  out 
for  him. 

"That  may  be,  and  is  so,  doubtless.  But  it  is 
necessary.  I  will  smooth  your  way  for  you.  You 
shall  have  ostensible  employment  in  a  reputable 
house;  you  shall  have  the  necessary  credit  at  a 


WEA  VING  A    THEOR  Y.  69 

fashionable  tailor,  and  you  shall  have  the  introduc- 
tion to  young  men  of  fashion  that  will  give  you  a 
start." 

"But  when  all  this  is  done,  what  am  I  to  do?" 

"Continuously  extend  the  circle  of  your  acquaint- 
ance and  become  familiar  with  fashionable  haunts  of 
all  kinds,  and  obtain  invitations,  if  possible, --to  visit 
people's  homes.  In  the  mean  time  watch  people's 
hands.  In  short,  so  that  you  may  not  think  you 
are  upon  a  fool's  errahd,  I  will  tell  you  that  I  want 
you  to  be  eyes  and  ears  for  me  in  places  where  I 
cannot  go  myself  without  arousing  suspicion." 

"You  think  the  murderer  will  be  detected  in 
such  circles." 

"If  not  detected,  facts  and  circumstances  will 
be  secured  that  will  lead  up  to  detection.  I  am 
digging  deeply,  for  if  my  experience  is  worth  any- 
thing we  will  not  come  to  the  end  of  this  matter  to- 
morrow nor  for  many  days  thereafter.  You  must 
change  your  quarters  to-morrow.  Look  out  for 
them — a  place  where  a  moderately  fashionable  man 
should  live." 

With  these  words  the  old  detective  arose  and, 
taking  his  hat,  led  the  way  to  the  door  of  the  restau- 
rant, where  he  said : 

"Go  where  you  will  to-night.  I  will  see  you 
early  in  the  morning." 

They  parted  with  this. 


CHAPTER  VII. 

SETTING  UP  A  MAN  OF  FASHION. 

WITHIN  a  week  after  his  conversation  Dorison 
was  in  occupation  of  a  comfortable  suite  of 
apartments  in  Twenty-ninth  Street. 

Through  the  agency  of  old  Mr.Nettleman  he  had 
gathered  a  stock  of  such  fashionable  clothing  as  he 
had  not  had  since  the  days  prior  to  his  father's 
death;  he  was  in  enjoyment  of  an  income  over  and 
above  his  salary  of  two  hundred  dollars  a  month 
with  which  to  support  his  pretensions,  supplied  by 
Mr.  Nettleman.  Also  he  was  connected  nominally 
with  a  mercantile  house  in  the  lower  part  of  the  city, 
and  this  also  through  Mr.  Nettleman,  who  had  taken 
a  friend  into  his  confidence,  and  given  Dorison  there- 
by a  standing  other  than  that  of  a  mere  idler  of  the 
town.  And  in  addition  he  had  brought  the  young 
man  into  pleasant  relations  with  several  young  men, 
sons  of  his  friends. 

All  of  this  was  in  pursuance  of  the  suggestions  of 
Cathcart,  and  though  he  did  not  inform  Dorison  as 
to  his  reasons,  he  did  his  cousin.  The  reasons 
were  not  so  much  that  Dorison  could  aid  in  the 
capture  of  the  murderer  as  that  he  saw  that  any 
explanation  of  Reuben  Dorison's  strange  letter  was 
to  be  obtained  in  the  circle  in  which  he  had  moved. 
70 


SETTING  UP  A  MAN  OF  FASHION,          71 

And  he  hoped  to  edge  the  younger  Dorison  into  it, 
without  his  identity  being  known. 

Cathcart  had  a  -theory  as  to  Reuben  Dorison 's 
connection  with  the  Parish's  which  he  kept  closely 
to  himself.  In  what  direction  it  tended  may  be 
imagined  from  this  brief  exchange  with  his  cousin 
Nettleman  one  evening  when  they  were  together. 

"What  was  Reuben  Dorison's  private  life,  Cousin 
Nettleman?"  he  asked  suddenly.  "Was  he  given  to 
intrigues  with  women?" 

Mr.  Nettleman  was  indignant  and  in  arms  at 
once. 

"No,  sir,"  he  replied  emphatically.  "No  purer 
man  in  his  private  life  ever  lived.  Of  that  I  am 
certain.  His  home  life  was  perfectly  happy." 

"Are  you  saying  that  because  you  think  you  must 
be  loyal  to  the  memory  of  your  dead  friend,  or 
because  you  believe  it?" 

"I  say  it  because  it  is  true.  From  the  moment 
he  married  his  wife,  he  was  a  devoted  husband  and 
a  pure  man." 

"His  wife  died  how  many  years  ago?" 

"She  died  the  first  year  he  moved  into  Twenty- 
third  Street— in  1851." 

"Ah,  twenty-eight  years  ago." 

Whatever  he  thought,  he  was  exceedingly  busy 
in  these  days,  leaving  Dorison  much  to  himself. 
About  two  weeks  after  the  young  man  had  entered 
upon  his  second  career  as  a  man  of  fashion,  as 
Cathcart  called  it,  the  old  detective  made  his 
appearance  at  Dorison's  rooms.  It  was  early  in  the 


72  THE  MAN  WITH  A   THUM&. 

morning,  before  the  young  man  was  out  of  bed. 
He  pushed  himself  into  the  sleeping-room  and  sat 
himself  upon  the  bed  as  he  talked. 

"I  have  found  out  who  transferred  by  deed  that 
house  in  Sixteenth  Street  to  Mrs.  Parish, "  he  said 
without  preface.  "After  a  search  which  carried 
me  to  Buffalo,  I  found  that  the  man  had  been  dead 
a  year.  I  have  made  diligent  search  for  Mr.  Far- 
ish,  and  have  not  found  a  person  who  ever  heard 
of  him.  I  have,  however,  picked  up  a  great  many 
trifles  which  will  in  time,  no  doubt,  be  of  value.  I 
have  been  hoping  to  find  a  starting  place  for  you." 

"I  thought  you  had  abandoned  me  to  my  fate 
as  a  fashionable  rounder,"  said  the  young  man 
lightly. 

"No,"  replied  Cathcart  seriously.  "But  I  want 
you  to  make  a  systematic  study  of  hands." 

"Of  what,"  said  Dorison,  perplexed  by  the  seem- 
ing irrelevancy  of  the  remark. 

"A  study  of  the  hands  of  the  young  men  of  your 
acquaintance.  You  must,  as  I  have  indicated 
before,  look  high  and  low  for  such  a  hand  as  I  have 
described  to  you." 

'  'And  finding  such  a  hand  arrest  the  body  to  which 
it  is  attached,  I  suppose?" 

"No;  inform  me.  Find  his  name,  occupation, 
and  surroundings." 

"Ah,  an  easy  matter  surely  when  you've  caught 
your  bird." 

"Here,"  continued  the  detective,  taking  out  a 
well-filled  wallet  and  extracting  a  paper  from  it, 


SETTING  UP  A  MAN  OF  FASHION.          73 

"is  a  complete  list  of  all  places  where  they  make 
gloves  to  order.  You  must  visit  each  place  and 
order  gloves  for  yourself,  and  while  doing  so  get  up 
a  talk  on  the  peculiarity  of  hands  that  glove-makers 
meet  with,  and  perhaps  you  may  stumble  upon  the 
maker  of  the  glove  I  have  told  you  about." 

"That  ought  to  be  easy." 

"Now,  don't  go  too  fast,"  said  Cathcart  warn- 
ingly.  "It  is  by  no  means  as  easy  as  you  think — that 
is,to  do  it  without  arousing  suspicion.  People  do 
not  like  detectives  except  in  books,  and  if  you  give 
them  reason  to  suspect  you  to  be  one,  you  will  find 
the  bars  up  against  you.  Again,  you  are  liable  to 
direct  the  attention  of  the  police  to  yourself,  and  I 
particularly  desire  to  avoid  that.  Now  one  word 
more,  and  I  am  off.  I  want  you  to  meet  me  at  Po- 
lice Headquarters  at  eleven  precisely  this  morning. 
Not  before  that  hour,  because  I  don't  want  those 
fellows  to  get  at  you  as  they  will  be  sure  to  do ; 
not  after  that  hour,  for  I  don't  want  to  wait  a 
moment." 

With  this  he  was  gone.  Dorison  consulted  his 
watch  and  found  he  would  have  barely  time  to 
dress  and  breakfast.  So  he  hurried  into  his  bath. 

At  eleven,  as  he  turned  into  Mulberry  Street 
from  Bleecker,  he  saw  Cathcart  approaching- from 
Houston.  They  met  at  the  foot  of  the  steps  of  the 
Police  Headquarters. 

"One  moment  before  we  enter, j'  said  Cathcart. 
"Answer  no  leading  question  except  by  evasion.  I 
want  you  here  to  make  a  study  of  that  glove.  If 


74  THE  MAN  WITH  A   THUMB. 

you  have  the  slightest  aptitude  for  this  business, 
from  a  close  examination  of  the  glove,  you  can  gain 
an  intelligent  knowledge  of  the  character  of  the 
hand  you  are  to  seek.  And  let  me  tell  you  there 
is  as  much  character  in  a  hand  as  in  a  face.  Impress 
it  on  your  memory,  burn  it  in,  and  when  you  have 
fastened  it  on  your  mind,  turn  to  me  and  say,  'No, 
I  never  saw  this  glove.  I  do  not  recognize  it.'  Do 
you  understand?" 

Assuring  the  old  man  he  did,  Dorison  followed 
him  into  the  building  and  into  the  office  of  the 
detective  we  have  twice  met  before  in  the  course  of 
our  narrative.  The  detective  himself  was  seated 
in  his  office  chair,  his  feet  stretched  out,  his  hands 
in  his  pockets,  his  chin  on  his  breast,  and  his  face 
wearing  a  gloomy,  perplexed  expression. 

As  he  perceived  his  visitor,  he  brightened  up 
and  rose  to  greet  Cathcart. 

"Ah,"  he  said,  "I  am  glad  you  have  come.  I 
was  this  moment  desiring  to  see  you.  Have  you 
anything  new?" 

"I  have  something  to  say  to  you,"  replied  Cath- 
cart gravely.  "But  first  I  want  my  friend  Dudley 
to  see  that  glove  we  found." 

The  detective,  who  had  not  greeted  Dorison, 
though  he  had  recognized  him,  now  addressed  a  salu- 
tation to  him,  and  bending  over  his  desk  moved  a 
newspaper  revealing  the  glove  under  a  glass,  still  on 
the  little  fan  on  w,hich  it  had  been  placed.  Cathcart 
took  it,  and,  moving  the  glass,  handed  it  to  Dorison, 
who  carried  it  to  the  light.  He  expended  five  min- 


SETTING  UP  A  MAN  OF  FASHION.          75 

utes  in  its  examination.  Turning,  he  handed  it 
back  to  Cathcart  with  the  words  the  old  detective 
had  bade  him  utter. 

"Another  disappointment, "  quietly  remarked  the 
old  man  as  he  turned  to  go.  He  was  detained  by 
the  Captain. 

"I  thought  you  had  somethWig  to  say  to  me,"  he 
said. 

"Yes,"  replied  Cathcart.  "Excuse  me,  Mr. 
Dudley." 

Taking  this  as  an  intimation  to  remove  himself  as 
far  as  possible,  Dorison  took  a  seat  near  the  door. 
Cathcart  and  the  Captain  talked  in  whispers. 

"What  is  it,"  asked  the  Captain.  "What  did  you 
bring  him  here  for?" 

"A  bare  chance,"  replied  Cathcart;  "he  talked 
to  me  of  a  man  with  a  long  thumb,  and  I  brought 
him  here  to  see  if  he  could  recognize  it.  He  does 
not  know  the  meaning  of  his  visit." 

The  Captain  closely  examined  the  face  of  Cath- 
cart as  he  was  thus  glibly  lying,  but  it  was  inscru- 
table. 

"Now  what  have  you  to  tell  me?"  asked  the 
Captain. 

"Only  as  to  what  I  have  been  at  work  on.  Noth-. 
ing  as  to  what  I  have  found,  for  it  is  nothing.  From 
her  minister  I  have  found  there  was  some  strange 
or  wrong  event  in  Mrs.  Parish's  life,  but  what,  I 
cannot  even  guess  at.  I  have  found  out  who  deeded 
the  house  to  her  only  to  find  him  dead.  In  short, 
I  have  been  looking  into  her  antecedents  without 


7$  Till'.  MAN  WITH  A   THUMB. 

result.  No  one  knows  where  she  came  from,  or 
what  she  was  prior  to  turning  up  in  Sixteenth  Street 
twenty  years  ago." 

"Your  experience  is  not  unlike  my  own.  You 
are  discouraged  then?" 

"No;  if  I  were  at  the  beginning  of  my  career, 
say  thirty-five  year^.  ago,  I  should  throw  up  my 
hands.  As  it  is,  I  feel  as  the  real  search  had  only 
begun." 

"Oh,"  said  the  Capjain,  with  his  peculiar  srnile. 
"What  is  your  plan?" 

"To  tramp  around  until  I  knock  against  some- 
thing that  will  give  me  a  suggestion." 

"Well,"  said  the  Captain,  after  a  moment's  hesi- 
tation, "here  is  one  thing.  Mrs.  Parish  had  a  son, 
who  was  wild  and  unmanageable,  and  left  home  when 
he  was  eighteen  to  go  into  Jhe  West.  He  gave  his 
mother  much  trouble." 

"Ah,  where  did  you  get  that?" 

"By  accident.  An  old  carpenter,  who  used  to 
do  odd  jobs  for  Mrs.  Farish,  blew  in  here  a  day 
or  two  after  the  murder  with  that  single  bit  of 
information." 

"Name  and  address,"  demanded  Cathcart,  pulling 
out  his  memorandum  book.  The  Captain  gave  it, 
and  it  was  duly  entered. 

"It  is  not  much,"  said  Cathcart,  as  he  put  up  his 
book.  "I  had  heard  of  the  son,  but  the  minister 
believed  him  dead,  from  the  way  his  mother  had 
referred  to  him.  What  else  have  you  heard?" 

"Nothing,"  returned  the  Captain;   "I  have  been 


SETTING  UP  A  MAN  OF  FASHION.          77 

traveling  over  the  same  ground  you  have,  and  with 
a  like  result.  But  as  a  matter  of  fact  I  have  not 
been  able  to  devote  my  whole  time  to  the  case.  A 
series  of  most  skillful  burglaries  haVe  been  going  on 
for  some  time,  and  we  are  unable  to  get  trace  of 
them.  The  Commissioners  are  making  my  life  mis- 
erable, and  I  am  nearly  wild  over  it.  They  are  skill- 
ful and  audacious.  They  are  hands  new  to  New 
York.  The  methods  they  employ  show  that  they 
are  not  the  old  cracksmen.  And  the  old  fellows 
do  not  know  them  any  better  than  we  do.  I  have 
half  the  thieves  in  town  looking  for  them  from  curi- 
osity." 

"Ah,"  said  Cathcart,  much  interested.  "What 
are  the  peculiarities  of  their  work?" 

"There  is  no  picking  of  locks;  no  lifting  of  win- 
dows; all  entrances  are  made  through  front  doors 
to  which  they  have  keys;  intimate  acquaintance 
with  the  location  of  valuables  and  of  the  interior  of 
the  houses.  They  take  money,  jewelry,  and  small 
plate  if  it  is  silver,  and  nothing  else.  In  three 
instances  they  have  passed  over  negotiable  securi- 
ties, refusing  to  take  them." 

"Accomplices  from  the  inside?" 

"That  was  my  first  thought.  But  I  have  aban- 
doned it.  Here  are  two  strange  things.  They  scat- 
ter their  work.  Night  before  last  they  entered  a 
house  in  Sixty-third  Street  near  Madison  Avenue. 
Last  night  in  Fifteenth  Street  near  Sixth  Avenue. 
And  so  it  goes.  Every  house  they  enter  has  a  sick 
person  in  it;  it  never  fails." 


78  THE  MAN  WITH  A   THUMB. 

"Ah,  ha!"  said  Cathcart,  "There  is  your  point. 
Follow  that  up.  Those  things  don't  happen.  Con- 
fine yourself  to  that  point." 

"I  wish  you  would  work  with  us  in  that  murder 
affair. ' ' 

"I  will  give  you  assistance.  Devote  yourself  to 
these  robberies.  I  will  follow  the  murder  up  until 
I  know  something.  You  cannot  divide  yourself  on 
two  such  important  cases  and  succeed  in  either.  If 
you  want  reports  from  me  every  morning  I  will  give 
you  something  you  can  show  as  indicating  your 
progress.  Trust  me." 

The  Captain  wrung  Cathcart's  hand. 

"That  was  the  very  proposition  I  was  going  to 
make.  You  have  removed  half  the  load  from  my 
shoulders.  If  you  want  men  send  to  me  for  them. 
I  leave  the  case  to  you." 

"Discreet  and  skillful  shadows  will  be  all  I  want." 

"Send  for  them  then  any  hour  of  the  day  or 
night." 

They  parted  at  the  door. 

Dorison  followed  the  old  detective  into  the  street, 
when  he  said : 

"You  have  those  torn  scraps  of  paper  safe." 

"Yes,"  replied  Dorison. 

"Hold  fast  to  them.  Put  them  in  a  safe  place. 
The  time  may  come  when  they  will  be  of  the  utmost 
value." 

On  the  corner  of  Broadway  and  Bleecker  Street, 
Cathcart  halted  and  said: 

"My  visit  has  turned  out  better  than  I  could  have 


SETTING  UP  A  MAN  OF  FASHION.          79 

expected.     The  Captain  has  given  the  case  into  my 
hands.     Now  I've  got  it.     It  is  a  question  of  time 
only.  •  No  interference  now  by  blunderers.     I  know 
the  man  and  how  to  catch  him  with  proof." 
"You  know  the  man?"  said  Dorison  surprised. 
"Yes,  I  know  the  man.     That  is  to  say — " 
The  old  detective  stopped  suddenly  and  attentively 
regarded  a  man  passing  on  the  other  side  of  the 
street.     Without  a  word  he  slipped  across,  leaving 
Dorison  so  astounded,  he  could    do  nothing  but 
stare  after  him  as  he  nimbly  followed  the  man  who 
had  attracted  his  attention. 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

AN  ADVENTURE. 

.  T  HAVE    seen    politer  gentlemen,"    remarked 

1  Dorison  to  himself,  when  he  recovered  from 
his  astonishment.  He  stood  for  a  moment  upon  the 
corner.  "Well,"  he  muttered,  "he  has  given  me 
instructions  as  to  one  piece  of  work,  and  I  will  go 
at  it  at  once." 

He  took  from  his  pocket  the  list  of  glove-makers 
given  him  by  Cathcart.  Discovering  that  one  was 
not  far  away,  he  determined  to  begin  there.  As  he 
walked  up  the  street,  he  busied  himself  with  prepar- 
ing a  few  tactical  questions  which  should  lead  to  a 
general  discussion  of  glove-making,  out  of  which 
might  come  some  hints  as  to  the  wearer  of  the  glove 
he  had  recently  examined. 

Reaching  Eighth  Street  he  crossed  to  the  other 
side  of  Broadway,  on  which  the  glove-maker  was,  but 
his  steps  were  checked  by  an  omnibus  which  stopped 
immediately  in  his  way  to  permit  a  young  girl  to 
descend — a  young  girl  perhaps  of  nineteen  summers, 
whose  bright,  pretty  face,  surmounted  by  a  wreath 
of  golden  curls,  attracted  his  admiring  attention. 
She  turned  to  the  sidewalk,  to  which  he  was  cross- 
ing, without  seeing  a  pair  of  horses  rapidly  driven 
down  the  street. 

80 


AN  AD  VENTURE.  8 1 

Before  Dorison  could  sound  a  warning  the  girl 
was  knocked  down  by  one  of  the  horses,  and  but 
for  a  mighty  leap  upon  his  part,  which  enabled  him 
to  reach  her  in  time  to  drag  her  from  under  the 
wheels  nearly  upon  her,  she  would  have  been  run 
over.  He  lifted  her  to  her  feet  quickly.  Perceiv- 
ing she  was  either  injured  or  fainting  from  fright,  he 
bore  her  in  his  arms  to  the  sidewalk,  a  policeman, 
who  had  run  to  the  girl's  assistance,  stopping  the 
vehicles  to  make  way  for  him. 

As  he  reached  the  curbstone  with  his  burden,  a 
young  man  stepped  up  to  him  and  with  no  little 
insolence  said  : 

"I'll  relieve  you  of  your  charge,"  attempting  at 
the  same  time  to  take  the  girl. 

Dorison,  from  a  rapid  survey  of  the  young  man, 
was  not  impressed  favorably,  and  said  curtly : 

"I  do  not  recognize  your  right." 

'Then  I'll  make  you,"  angrily  returned  the  young 
man.  'This  lady  I  know;  I  am  her  friend." 

"Stand  back  now,"  said  the  policeman,  "your 
right  will  be  recognized  when  the  lady  can  tell  who 
her  friends  are." 

To  Dorison:  "Is  she  hurt?  Carry  her  to  that 
drug  store,"  pointing  to  one  near  by. 

At  this  moment  the  occupant  of  the  carriage  came 
hurrying  up. 

"Is  she  injured?"  he  asked.  "Bring  her  to  this 
drug  store.  I  am  a  physician." 

"By !  Fassett,"  cried  the  young  man  who  had 

interfered,  with  an  oath,  and  who  was  following, 


82  THE  MAN  WITH  A    THUMB, 

"you  manufacture  your  patients.  You  ought  to 
have  y<5ur  neck  broken  for  driving  like  that." 

"Be  quiet,  Harry,  for  Heaven's  sake!"  implored 
the  physician. 

During  this  brief  interchange  Dorison,  accom- 
panied by  the  policeman,  who  was  assisting  in  bear- 
ing the  young  lady,  had  reached  the  drug  store  and 
placed  her  in  a  chair. 

The  other  two  followed,  and  the  physician,  bend- 
ing over  the  girl,  said: 

"It  is  a  faint." 

Calling  for  remedies,  he  soon  restored  the  young 
lady  to  consciousness. 

Opening  her  eyes  she  looked  about  in  a  dazed 
manner  for  a  moment,  as  if  she  could  not  collect 
her  senses. 

"Where  am  I?"  she  asked,  bewildered.  "What 
has  happened?"  Recognizing  the  physician  she 
said,  "Oh,  is  it  you,  Doctor?  How  came  I  here?" 

"Are  you  injured,  Miss  Eustace?  Tell  me.  It 
was  I  who  knocked  you  down." 

"Yes,"  bitterly  laughed  the  young  man,  "with 
his  fine,  fast  span,  he  knocked  you  down." 

The  girl  looked  up,  and  Dorison  was  certain  he 
caught  an  expression  of  dislike  and  contempt,  as  it 
flitted  over  her  face  during  the  moment  her  eyes 
rested  upon  the  speaker.  For  the  first  time  Dori- 
son seriously  regarded  the  young  man,  and  observed 
that  his  face  bore  the  unmistakable  evidence  of 
rapidity  of  life,  and  that  he  was  no  stranger  to  the 
brandy  bottle.  Yet  the  face  would  have  been  called 


AN  ADVENTURE.  83 

handsome  by  most  people ;  the  flush  attributed  by 
Dorison  to  alcohol,  by  many  would  have  been  taken 
as  an  evidence  of  youth  and  health  ;  and  his  air  and 
manner  called  dashing  and  engaging.  His  fine 
clothes  were  extreme  in  cut  and  loud  in  colors. 
The  sum  of  Dorison's  rapid  conclusions  was  that 
the  man  was  a  low-bred  "cad." 

The  physician  repeated  his  question. 

"No,"  replied  the  young  girl.  "I  am  not  hurt. 
But  what  does  it  all  mean?" 

The  policeman  replied  to  her  question  : 

"It  means  that  after  you  got  out  of  the  Fifth 
Avenue  stage  opposite  here,  you  were  knocked  down 
by  a  team,  and  you'd  'a'  bin  run  over  but  for  the 
spryness  of  this  gentleman,"  indicating  Dorison 
with  a  nod,  "who  leaped  forward,  pulled  you  from 
under  the  wheels,  and  brought  you  to  the  sidewalk. ' ' 

The  girl  lifted  her  violet  eyes  to  Dorison,  with  a 
most  grateful  expression,  and  blushing  as  she 
spoke,  said  simply  : 

"  I  thank  you,  sir." 

"  I  thank  my  good  fortune  I  was  so  near  as  to 
be  of  service,"  replied  Dorison,  a  little  embarrassed 
under  such  grateful  eyes. 

"  None  but  the  brave — "  sneered  the  young 
man. 

"  Be  quiet,"  said  the  policeman,  so  savagely 
the  utterer  of  the  sneer  found  it  convenient  to  walk 
away  a  short  distance.  The  physician  began  to 
question  her  as  to  possible  injuries.  • 

To   all   inquiries   the   young    lady    made    such 


84  THE  MAN  WITH  A    THUMB. 

replies  as  indicated  no  serious  damage  had  been 
done,  although  she  was  evidently  much  shocked. 

"  I  do  not  think  the  young  lady  has  sustained 
any  injuries  beyond  a  few  bruises,"  said  Dorison. 
"  She  was  struck  by  the  shoulder  of  the  horse  near- 
est her.  I  am  certain  nothing  else  touched  her, 
not  even  a  horse's  hoof." 

"Then,"  said  the  physician,  "I  am  thankful  to 
be  able  to  say  that  a  slight  stimulant  is  all  that  will 
be  required  to  enable  her  to  return  home." 

This  was  administered,  and  the  dirt  and  dust 
having  been  brushed  from  her  clothes,  the  physi- 
cian said  : 

"  I  hope,  Miss  Eustace,  you  will  permit  me  to 
make  a  slight  reparation  for  my  blundering  care- 
lessness, by  driving  you  home  ?  My  excuse  for 
rapid  driving  is  that  I  was  hastily  summoned  to  a 
very  sick  man." 

"  Then  do  not  let  me  detain  you  another  moment, 
Doctor,"  hastily  replied  the  young  lady.  "  I  am 
wholly  recovered,  and  I  think  I  was  silly  to  faint." 

"  I  will  accompany  Miss  Eustace  home,"  said  the 
young  man,  perceiving  an  opportunity  and  striving 
to  utilize  it. 

"  No,  sir,  it  is  unnecessary,"  replied  the  lady, 
with  such  coldness  and  haughtiness  as  to  make  a 
repetition  of  the  proffer  impossible.  To  the  offi- 
cer she  said,  "  Will  you  do  me  the  favor  to  call  a 
cab."  To  the  physician,  <k  Doctor,  you  must  go  to 
your  patient.  I  insist  upon  it.  I  will  forgive  you 
for  knocking  me  down,  if  you  will  go  at  once,  and 


AN  ADVENTURE.  85 

I  never  will  if  you  don't.  Go.  I  am  not  injured 
at  all." 

The  doctor  departed  with  apologies,  as  the  offi- 
cer entered,  having  caught  a  cab  at  the  door. 

The  young  lady,  rising,  turned  to  Dorison  and 
with  color  again  flushing  her  cheeks  said  : 

"  Sir,  if  I  have  not  expressed  gratitude  to  you 
for  your  service,  it  is  not  because  I  am  insensible 
of  its  value.  Indeed,  I  thank  you  very  much." 

With  this,  to  which  Dorison  responded  with  a 
low  bow,  she  walked  off  with  the  officer,  who 
returned  a  moment  later  saying  : 

"  The  young  lady  desires  to  know  your  name 
and  address,  so  that  her  father  may  call  upon  you." 

Dorison  had  regained  his  self-possession  fully, 
and  he  replied  : 

"Say  to  the  young  lady,  with  my  compliments, 
please,  that  while  I  shall  esteem  it  as  an  honor  to  be 
visited  by  her  father,  his  thanks  are  unnecessary, 
since  I  am  grateful  for  having  been  able  to  render 
service  to  his  daughter.  My  name  is  James  Dud- 
ley; my  address  is  No.  — Twenty-ninth  Street." 

It  is  doubtful  whether  the  officer  repeated  any 
more  of  this  rather  grandiloquent  speech  than  the 
address.  Dorison,  turning,  saw  the  young  stranger 
regarding  him  with  an  insolent  sneer.  It  made  him 
angry  and  all  the  more  so  because  he  was  conscious 
that  his  speech,  a  little  too  pompous  to  be  in  good 
taste,  had  given  reason  for  the  sneer. 

So  he  rushed  forthwith  into  another  error. 

"My  name  is  James  Dudley.     What  is  yours?" 


86  THE  MAN  WITH  A    THUMB. 

'  'Really,"  said  the  young  man,  with  studied  inso- 
lence, "your  information  is  highly  important,  but  I 
am  not  bartering  on  such  terms." 

An  angry  reply  leaped  to  Dorison's  tongue,  but 
perceiving  the  absurdity  of  a  quarrel  upon  such 
insufficient  grounds,  he  walked  out  of  the  store. 

It  was  some  time  before  he  cooled,  for  he  felt  he 
had  made  himself  ridiculous.  Indeed  it  was  not 
until  he  recognized  the  humor  of  the  situation — 
that  he  desired  to  punish  the  young  man  for  having 
himself  been  absurd,  that  he  could  laugh  it  off.  By 
this  time  he  found  he  had  passed  the  store  he  wished 
to  call  at,  and  retraced  his  steps.  Although  he 
endeavored  to  bend  his  mind  to  the  business  he  had 
in  hand,  he  was  not  able  to  banish  that  charming 
face,  especially  those  upturned  eyes.  Perhaps  his 
failure  to  elicit  any  information,  and  he  visited  the 
whole  list,  was  due  to  that  haunting  face  and  to  the 
memory  of  the  pressure  of  that  soft,  yielding  form 
in  his  arms  as  he  bore  it  to  the  sidewalk. 

Tired  out  at  the  end,  disgusted  with  his  failure, 
and  blaming  himself  for  having  done  his  work  badly, 
he  returned  to  his  apartments  to  prepare  himself  for 
his  evening's  work.  His  thoughts  turned  to  the 
purpose  Cathcart  had  in  view  in  sending  him  into 
the  life  he  was  leading.  And  while  he  acknowl- 
edged to  himself  that  he  had  fallen  into  old  ways 
and  habits  with  astonishing  ease,  and  that  his  life 
was  far  from  disagreeable,  yet  he  doubted  the  wis- 
dom of  Cathcart  and  could  not  put  away  the  idea 
that  he  was  merely  the  puppet  of  the  whims  and 


AN  ADVENTURE.  87 

caprices  of  a  man  who  had  entered  upon  his  dotage. 
Consequently,  he  could  not  believe  that  he  could 
continue  long  on  his  present  course.  These  thoughts, 
not  unmixed  with  occasional  reversions  to  the  adven- 
tures of  the  day,  occupied  him  as  he  dressed  for 
the  evening.  Indeed,  he  had  barely  completed 
his  dressing  when  a  card  was  presented  bearing  the 
words:  "Herbert  Clavering  Eustace." 

As  he  directed  his  caller  to  be  shown  up,  he  was 
conscious  of  a  feeling  of  elation,  reason  for  which  he 
could  not  satisfactorily  give  to  himself.  However, 
little  time  was  given  for  self-examination,  for  in  a 
moment  Mr.  Eustace  was  ushered  into  the  room. 

His  caller  was  a  tall,  slim  gentleman,  whose  sixty 
winters  bore  lightly  upon  him ;  a  gentleman  of  ele- 
gant and  courtly  bearing;  whose  head  was  covered 
with  snow-white  hair,  while  a  mustache  as  white 
swept  across  his  face  and  lost  itself  in  soft,  silken 
white  whiskers.  With  perfect  breeding  he  stated 
the  purpose  of  his  call  to  be  wholly  that  of  thanking 
Mr.  Dudley  for  the  inestimable  service  rendered  his 
daughter;  and  not  only,  he  said,  did  he  convey  the 
thanks  of  the  other  members  of  the  family,  but  of 
the  young  lady  herself,  who,  she  was  quite  certain, 
at  the  time  of  the  accident  had  not  shown  proper 
appreciation  of  what  she  had  been  saved  from  by 
Mr.  Dudley's  quick  wit  and  ready  hand. 

All  of  this  overwhelmed  Dorison,  who  was  really 
a  modest  fellow,  and  he  felt  that  shamefacedness 
at  being  so  much  thanked,  manly  men  ever  do.  By 
a  strong  effort  he  pulled  his  wits  together  and  met 


88  THE  MAX  IVITir  A   THUMB. 

the  courtesy  in  a  well-bred  manner,  avoiding  the 
error  of  treating  a  service  the  beneficiaries  regarded 
important,  as  trivial,  as  ill-bred  people  are  so  apt  to 
do.  This  in  turn  impressed  Mr.  Eustace.  They 
glided  into  a  general  chat  of  a  few  moments,  when 
the  caller  arose  and  again  renewing  his  distinguished 
considerations,  expressed  the  hope  the  day  was  not 
far  distant  when  the  young  lady  might  thank  him 
in  person,  but  in  such  general  terms  and  in  such 
tone  that  Dorison  instantly  felt  that  he  would  be  a 
consummate  fool  if  he  were  to  take  the  expression 
to  be  anything  more  than  a  polite  courtesy. 

He  accompanied  Mr.  Eustace  to  the  door,  and  in 
doing  so  passed  into  another  light,  giving  Mr. 
Eustace  for  the  first  time  a  fair  opportunity  to 
observe  his  face. 

"Good  heavens!"  exclaimed  the  old  gentleman, 
startled  out  of  his  propriety,  "What  a  marvelous 
resemblance.  Sir,  are  you  related  in  any  way  to 
Reuben  Dorison?" 

Too  well  disciplined  in  this  direction  to  be  taken 
aback,  Dorison  replied: 

"The  gentleman  is  unknown  to  me." 

"He  is  dead  these  eight  years.  He  was  a  dear 
friend  of  mine.  Your  resemblance  to  him  at  the 
age  you  are  now,  is  something  wonderful.  Indeed, 
intervening  years  pass  away,  and  as  I  talk  with  you 
I  seem  to  talk  with  him.  You  have  his  voice,  his 
bearing,  his  very  tricks  of  manner,  even  your  smile 
is  his.  Upon  my  word  it  is  wonderful." 

It  required  all  the  self-control  Dorison  could  sum- 


AN  ADVENTURE.  89 

mon  to  prevent  a  betrayal  of  himself  in  this  outburst. 
Murmuring  something  about  strong  resemblances 
being  not  uncommon  in  this  world,  he  bowed  his 
visitor  out. 

The  door  closed,  and  he  threw  himself  into  the 
first  chair;  he  wildly  cursed  the  fate  that  compelled 
him  to  deny  his  birth,  his  identity,  his  claim  to  the 
consideration  of  his  father's  friends,  and  to  mislead 
and  prevaricate  to  a  fine,  honorable  gentleman,  as 
he  was  certain  Mr.  Eustace  was — the  father  of  his 
daughter.  The  bitterness  of  his  destiny  came  upon 
him  with  even  greater  force,  and  he  passed  an  hour 
in  passionate  revolt  against  the  fortune  that  had  been 
meted  out  to  him.  Out  of  this  futile  rebelling,  he 
passed  into  a  frenzy  of  determination  to  wrest  the 
secret  of  his  disgrace  from  unwilling  time,  and  went 
out  into  the  air. 


CHAPTER  IX. 

THE    MAN    WITH    A    THUMB. 

WHEN  Dorison  rushed  out,  under  the  impulse 
of  his  determination,  he  felt  strong  enough  to 
wrestle  with  worlds.  When  he  reached  the  street 
and  considered  what  he  should  do  he  felt  his  weak- 
ness. As  suddenly  as  he  had  burst  into  his  spasm 
of  passionate  remonstrance,  as  suddenly  he  relapsed 
into  hopelessness.  Lost  in  gloomy  thought  he  wan- 
dered on,  caring  little  whither  he  went.  He  reached 
Third  Avenue  without  knowing  why  he  had  walked 
in  that  direction. 

Near  the  corner,  an  elderly  man,  with  long  hair 
and  beard,  had  erected  a  frail,  low  platform  which 
he  had  lit  with  oil  lamps.  He  was  an  itinerant 
phrenologist,  and  was  holding  forth  in  long  words 
and  execrable  grammar  upon  the  marvelous  head  of 
a  street  gamin  he  had  persuaded  to  submit  to  exami- 
nation. Over  his  head  was  a  placard,  "A  man  is 
what  he  makes  himself." 

Dorison  did  not  ask  what  pertinency  the  aphorism 
might  have  to  the  old  man's  occupation,  but  apply- 
ing it  to  himself,  laughed  bitterly,  and  asked  aloud, 
' '  Is  that  so  ?  What  am  I  but  the  foot-ball  of  chance — 
a  chip  on  the  rushing  waters  of  life,  I  can  neither 
resist  nor  control." 

90 


THE  MAN  WITH  A   THUMB.  91 

He  stopped  idly  to  listen  to  the  street  fakir  as  he 
gulled  his  auditors,  standing  on  the  outer  edge  of 
the  circle  in  a  shadow.  Tiring  of  listening,  he  turned 
to  go,  when  his  attention  was  attracted  by  a  figure 
which  seemed  familiar.  A  glance  sufficed  to  show 
that  it  was  the  young  man  he  had  encountered  at 
the  time  of  the  accident  to  Miss  Eustace,  who  was 
so  insolent.  Perceiving  that  he  was  not  observed 
by  the  young  man,  he  determined  to  remain  where 
he  was,  rather  than  encounter  for  a  second  time  the 
one  who  had  filled  him  with  such  repugnance. 

The  young  man,  dressed  as  he  was  in  the  after- 
noon, lounged  under  the  shadow  of  a  covered 
entrance  to  the  rear  of  the  corner  saloon.  As  Dori- 
son  watched  him,  a  man,  sharp-eyed  and  alert  in 
his  bearing,  taking  note  of  everything  about  him, 
passed  by.  Dorison  heard  a  low,  shrill  whistle  and 
thought  he  discovered  an  exchange  of  signals 
between  the  new  comer  and  the  lounger,  but  so  rapid 
and  insignificant  were  they,  that  perceiving  no 
change  in  the  attitude  of  the  young  man,  and  seeing 
the  other  one  pass  on,  he  concluded  he  was  mistaken. 
A  moment  later  the  sharp-eyed  man  returned,  pass- 
ing close  to  the  lounger  in  the  shadow,  and  this 
time  Dorison  saw  plainly  that  a  folded  paper  was 
transferred  from  the  lounger  to  the  passer-by,  who 
went  on  a  little  distance  and  then  sauntered  back. 
As  he  passed  the  lounger  he  said,  without  turning 
his  head: 

"When?" 

"To-night,"  replied  the  lounger. 


92  THE  MAN  WITH  A   THUMB. 

The  sharp-eyed  man  joined  the  circle  of  those 
listening  to  the  phrenologist,  listened.a  moment,  and 
then  stepping  back  said: 

"What  hour?" 

"Between  twelve  and  one,"  came  the  answer  from 
the  lounger. 

The  alert  man  again  joined  the  circle,  and  again 
listening  a  moment,  stepped  back  and  Dorison 
heard  the  further  exchange: 

"How  many?" 

"Three." 

With  this  the  alert  young  man  walked  off  rapidly 
toward  the  corner  and  disappeared.  The  lounger 
emerged  from  his  shadow  and  went  off  in  the  direc- 
tion of  Broadway. 

"Mysterious,"  muttered  Dorison.  "Now,  what 
can  that  mean?  If  I  were  Cathcart  I  presume  I 
would  construct  the  theory  of  a  great  crime  or  a 
huge  conspiracy." 

He  came  out  of  the  dark  corner.  A  young  woman 
was  coming  down  the  street  intent  upon  her  own 
thoughts,  humming  a  tune.  As  she  came  opposite 
the  entrance  to  the  saloon  referred  to,  as  the  one 
under  the  shadow  of  the  cover  of  which  the  antipa- 
thy of  Dorison  was  lounging,  the  door  was  flung 
open  and  a  loudly  dressed  man,  partially  intoxi- 
cated, came  out. 

Seeing  the  young  woman  he  cried  out: 

"Hello,  Bess,  old  gal." 

"Go  'way,"  she  replied,  trying  to  evade  him. 

But  he  reached  forward  and,  catching  her  by  the 


THE  MAN  WITH  A   THUMB.  93 

arm,  tried  roughly  to  pull  her  to  him,  as  he  said, 
with  a  taunting  laugh  : 

"No,  you  don't,  my  bird.  Come  here  and  give 
me  a  kiss." 

"Let  me  go,"  cried  the  girl,  struggling  to  free 
herself.  "Let  me  go,  you  big  loafer,  or  I'll  call 
the  police." 

"Or,  Johnny  the  grip,  eh!  Oh,  no,  you  don't  go 
until  you  give  me  a  kiss." 

He  bent  over  in  an  endeavor  to  carry  out  his 
threat,  when  she  dealt  him  a  smart  blow  upon  his 
cheek  with  her  open  hand. 

With  an  oath  he  made  a  motion  as  if  to  strike 
her,  when  a  policeman,  running  from  the  corner, 
cried  out : 

"None  of  that,  now." 

Dorison,  before  whose  eyes  this  scene  had  been 
enacted  so  rapidly  that  he  could  not  interfere,  sup- 
posed the  cry  of  the  policeman  was  addressed  to 
the  ruffian,  but  to  his  surprise  he  saw  him  seize  the 
girl. 

"I've  been  looking  for  this.  Now  I'll  take  you 
in." 

"I've  done  nothing,"  said  the  girl  in  alarm.  "He 
insulted  me  for  no  reason." 

"Oh  yes!  Of  course.  That's  likely,"  cried  the 
officer,  scornfully. 

"Officer,"  interposed  Dorison,  "you  will  do  an 
act  of  injustice  if  you  arrest  this  young  woman.  I 
was  a  witness  of  the  whole  thing." 

"Do  you  know  this  woman?" 


04  THE  MAN  WITH  A   THUM&. 

"No,  I  don't,  but  I  know  she  was  not  to  blame 
in  this  matter." 

"Well,  I  do,"  persisted  the  officer. 

"  Whether  you  do  or  not, "  replied  Dorison,  "you 
mustn't  arrest  her  for  anything  she's  done  to-night. 
If'  you  commit  such  an  outrage  I'll  make  trouble 
for  you." 

"Are  you  a  'pal'  of  her's?" 

"I'm  a  'pal'  of  nobody,"  said  Dorison  with  dig- 
nity. 

"Do  you  know  what  she  is?"  asked  the  officerv 
with  a  sneer. 

"No,  and  I  don't  ask.  But  I  do  know  she  was 
passing  along  the  street  quietly  when  this  ruffian 
came  out  of  that  door,  and  seizing  her,  tried  to  kiss 
her,  an  indignity  she  very  properly  resented.  You 
must  not  arrest  her ;  if  you  do  I  will  make  a  com- 
plaint against  you  where  it  will  trouble  you.  If  you 
must  arrest  any  one  arrest  the  rascal  who  molested 
her." 

Impressed  by  Dorison's  stern  manner,  the  officer 
looked  for  the  offender  denounced,  and  to  the  sur- 
prise of  all  he  had  disappeared. 

"He's  had  some  reason  for  sliding  out,"  said  the 
officer  to  himself. 

Then  turning  to  the  girl  he  said : 

"Your're  in  luck  to-night  in  havin'  this  swell  at 
your  back.  You  look  out  though,  I'm  watchin' 
you." 

The  girl,  who  had  not  spoken  a  word  during  the 
passage  between  the  officer  and  Dorison,  now  turned 
to  the  latter  and  said : 


THE  MAN  WITH  A    THUMB.  95 

\ 

"I  am  obliged  to  you  for  your  kindness,  sir. 
You've  got  me  out  of  a  bad  scrape,  sir." 

The  policeman  had  gone  back  to  the  corner.  The 
girl,  watching  him,  laid  her  hand  upon  the  arm  of 
Dorison  to  detain  him. 

"I'm  not  what  that  man  wants  to  make  me  out. 
I've  got  a  man  I  am  as  much  married  to  as  if  the 
priest  had  said  the  words.  That  man — the  police- 
man— has  been  followin'  me  for  a  year,  and  he's  got 
it  in  forme  because  I  told  him  to  go  about  hisbusi- 
ness.  The  other  man's  crooked — he's  a  thief,  and 
my  man  knows  he  is.  I  won't  forget  your  kindness. 
It  isn't  every  swell  as  would  interfere  to  help  a 
woman  like  me." 

She  went  off  nodding  and  smiling. 

"I'm  in  for  adventures  to-day,"  muttered  Dorison, 
as  he  retraced  his  steps  through  Twenty-ninth  Street 
to  Broadway.  "I  wonder  if  destiny  directed  me 
this  way  to  help  that  poor  girl.  Apparently  I  have 
an  occupation  in  life — the  rescuing  of  pretty  young 
women.  It  does  not  promise  to  be  remunerative, 
yet  if  thanks  were  coin,  I  would  be  rich  to-night." 

The  incidents  of  the  evening  had  stirred  him  from 
his  gloomy  thoughts,  and  his  mind  reverted  to  the 
espisode  of  the  early  afternoon,  bringing  the  fair 
young  face  with  violet  eyes  and  clustering  golden 
curls  before  him.  In  what  direction  his  thoughts 
strayed  may  be  judged  from  the  remark  he  muttered 
aloud  as  he  turned  into  Broadway. 

"It  was  a  sunbeam  shot  athwart  a  dark  life,  and 
as  unattainable  as  the  sun  itself." 


96  THE  MAX  WITH  A    THUMB. 

Arriving  in  front  of  Daly's  Theater,  upon  a  sud- 
den -impulse  he  turned  in  and  bought  a  ticket. 
Though  the  curtain  was  up  the  play  had  not  pro- 
gressed far  into  the  first  act  when  he  found  himself 
comfortably  seated. 

Passionately  fond  of  the  drama,  he  was  soon 
engrossed  in  the  brightness  of  the  dialogue  and 
the  skill  of  the  sterling  favorites,  Rehan  and 
Lewis. 

Immediately  in  front  of  him  sat  a  gentleman  with 
whom  he  had  a  slight  acquaintance.  Beside  this 
acquaintance,  evidently  his  companion,  sat  a  young 
man  whose  countenance  he  noted  was  the  most  attrac- 
tive he  had  ever  seen  in  a  man.  Somewhat  plump 
and  fair,  good  humor,  intelligence  and  refinement 
reigned  in  it.  He  further  noted,  that  the  young  man 
was  endowed  with  a  head  of  hair  which  should  by 
right  have  been  bestowed  upon  one  of  the  other 
sex,  for  it  was  pure  golden,  fine,  soft,  silky  and  curly. 
From  time  to  time,  as  interest  in  the  play  flagged, 
Dorison  turned  to  look  at  that  kindly,  winsome 
face,  remarking  how  artless  and  responsive  it  was 
without  losing  a  particle  of  manliness. 

"Yet,"  he  commented,  "such  a  face,  I  take  it, 
would  win  more  with  men  than  with  women." 

By-and-bye  the  young  man  who  had  thus  attracted 
his  attention  threw  his  arm  over  the  back  of  the  seat, 
permitting  it  tojiang  limply  behind  him. 

Dorison  started  violently.  He  turned  pale  and  a 
feeling  of  sickening  faintness  swept  over  him.  Had 
not  all  faces  been  intent  upon  the  stage,  his  marked 


THE  MAN  WITH  A    THUMB.  97 

agitation  must  have  attracted  the  attention  of  all 
about  him.  He  trembled  in  every  limb. 

There  was  the  hand  he  had  been  bidden  to  seek. 

Not  only  was  it  the  hand  with  prominent  joints  and 
knuckles,  and  with  disproportionately  long  thumb, 
but  it  was  encased  by  the  mate  of  the  very  glove  he 
had  that  morning  examined. 

It  was  the  same  in  color,  in  quality,  in  form  and 
in  the  peculiarity  of  its  make.  Like  that  one,  it 
fitted  in  every  part  of  the  hand  that  wore  it  perfectly. 

Fora  moment  or  two  everything  swam  before  his 
eyes.  He  seized  the  arms  of  his  seat  to  prevent 
himself  from  falling.  The  sensation,  as  powerful  as 
it  was,  passed  away  and  he  got  himself  under  better 
control.  He  studied  the  hand  and  glove.  There 
could  be  no  mistake.  The  opportunity  for  close 
examination  was  ample  before  the  young  man  with- 
drew his  hand. 

From  this  moment  the  drama  on  the  stage  lost 
interest  for  him.  He  now  was  concerned  in  a 
tragedy  before  whose  dread  events  the  puny  hap- 
penings of  the  comedy  paled  into  insignificance. 
He  studied  the  face  of  the  young  man  with  new 
interest  and  from  another  point  of  view. 

"  It  is  the  hand  and  the  glove,"  he  said  to  him- 
self, "  but  it  is  difficult  to  believe  that  that  face 
could  have  been  concerned  in  such  awful  work." 

Yet,  while  he  expressed  this  thought,  he  did  not 
falter  in  his  belief  that  the  murderer  of  Mrs. 
Farish  and  her  daughter  sat  before  him.  For  a 
brief  moment  he  contemplated  the  wild  idea  of 


98  THE  MAN  WITH  A    THUMB. 

denouncing  the  man  there  and  then.  This  was  due 
to  the  strength  of  Cathcart's  theorizing.  Though 
the  old  detective  would  have  laughed  at  Dorison's 
certainty,  he  could  not  have  failed  to  have  been 
complimented  by  this  sincere  testimony  to  the 
power  of  his  reasoning. 

What  Dorison  did  determine  to  do  was  to  wait 
until  the  play  was  done  and  follow  the  young  man 
with  a  view  of  discovering  who  he  was.  He  grew 
so  impatient  for  the  curtain  to  fall,  and  so  ner- 
vous over  the  slow  progress  the  comedy  made, 
that,  unable  to  sit  still  longer,  he  left  his  seat  and 
went  into  the  rear  of  the  theatre,  from  whence  he 

\ 

could  command  a  view  of  the  house  and  not  lose 
sight  of  his  prey.  After  what  seemed  to  him  an 
interminable  time  the  curtain  fell,  and  the  large 
audience  slowly  made  its  way  out.  As  the  two 
upon  whom  his  eyes  were  fixed  approached  the 
spot  where  he  stood,  the  companion  of  the  man 
with  a  thumb  recognized  Dorison  with  a  courteous 
bow  and  passed  on.  Dorison  followed.  At  the 
outer  door  the  twain  stopped  and  conversed 
earnestly.  And  suddenly,  before  Dorison  could 
anticipate  the  act,  the  man  with  the  thumb  flung  a 
laughing  negative  to  some  persuasion  of  his 
friend,  darted  across  the  pavements,  leaped  into  a 
waiting  carriage  and  was  rapidly  driven  away. 

The  other  turned  to  watch  the  people  pass  out. 
Dorison  stepped  up,  and  saluting  him,  said: 

"  I  have  been  strangely  attracted  by  the  face 
of  your  companion  of  the  evening.  I  have 


THE  MAN  WITH  A    THUMB.  99 

rarely  seen  one  more  winning.  May  I  ask  his 
name  ?  " 

The  gentleman,  who  was  one  introduced  to 
Dorison  through  the  maneuvering  of  Nettleman, 
laughed  as  he  replied  : 

"  The  common  experience.  Every  one  is  at- 
tracted by  it.  I  tell  him  that,  like  the  tradi- 
tional girl,  he  carries  his  fortune  in  his  face.  He 
is  as  good  a  fellow  as  it  indicates.  His  name 
is — " 

At  that  moment  a  gentleman  with  a  lady  on 
either  arm  addressed  the  speaker,  and  the  sen- 
tence was  stopped  short  of  the  information  it  was 
to  convey.  Lifting  his  hat  to  Dorison  with  request 
to  be  excused,  he  offered  his  arm  to  one  of  the 
ladies  and  walked  away. 

Dorison  was  disappointed,  but  he  consoled  him- 
self with  the  thought  that  the  information  was  not 
lost,  only  delayed,  since  he  could  soon  find  the 
gentleman  who  possessed  it. 

His  first  impulse  was  to  seek  Cathcart  at  once, 
but  reflecting  that  the  discovery  of  the  young  man, 
without  further  information,  would  carry  nothing  to 
so  practical  a  person,  he  determined  to  delay  his 
communication  until  he  could  gather  the  name  of 
the  owner  of  the  thumb  and  something  as  to  his 
surroundings. 

Quite  excited  he  strolled  down  the  street  and 
entered  that  great  thoroughfare,  the  Hoffman 
House.  Having  made  a  tour  of  the  corridors  and 
the  art  gallery  without  finding  any  one  he  knew,  he 


loo  THE  J/.LV  WITH  A    THUMB. 

turned  to  go  out,  when  he  saw  the  man  with  the 
thumb  enter  the  door. 

To  his  great  surprise  also,  he  saw  the  young 
man  whom  he  had  seen  twice  before  that  day 
under  most  dissimilar  circumstances — the  inso- 
lent young  man — start  up  from  a  corner  and 
address  the  other. 

The  man  in  whom  he,  Dorison,  had  so  great  an 
interest,  returned  a  cold  and  unmistakably  haughty 
bow,  and  passed  on,  while  the  other  colored, 
frowned  and  returned  to  his  corner. 

The  man  with  the  thumb  supplied  himself  with 
a  cigar  at  the  case,  went  out  again,  and  leaping 
into  his  cab  was  driven  off. 

"  Strange,"  muttered  Dorison,  "  that  that  man 
should  cross  my  path  three  times  to-day,  ending  up 
with  showing  he  knows  the  man  I  want  to  know  so 
badly." 


CHAPTER  X. 

BY  WAYS  UNKNOWN. 

"PEARLY  the  next  morning,  even  before  he  had 
.L/  breakfasted,  Dorison  sought  the  old  detective 
at  his  room. 

"Have  you  found  your  glove-maker?"  asked 
Cathcart,  as  he  entered. 

"I  have  something  much  better,"  replied  Dori- 
son. "The  man  with  the  thumb." 

"You  are  expeditious,"  said  the  old  man,  so 
coolly  as  to  dampen  the  ardor  of  the  younger  one, 
who  rather  anticipated  an  outburst  of  surprise  and 
excitement. 

"It  was  purely  by  accident,"  he  said. 

"Well,  tell  me  the  story,  and  begin  at  the  begin- 
ning." 

Thus  adjured,  his  enthusiasm  repressed  by  the 
total  lack  of  it  in  the  other,  Dorison  began  with  his 
entrance  into  the  theater,  omitting  no  detail. 

When  he  had  finished,  Cathcart  shook  his  head 
dubiously. 

"What  is  wrong?"  anxiously  queried  Dorison. 
"Do  you  think  I    erred   in  permitting  the  young 
fellow  to  get  away  without  learning  his  name?" 

"No;  that  can  be  easily  obtained.     But  I  dis- 
trust the  conclusions  of  your  information." 
101 


102  THE  MAN  WITH  A    THUMB. 

Dorison  was  puzzled  and  said  so. 

' ' I  mean  this, ' '  said  the  old  detective.  ' '  Not  only 
did  you  find  a  hand  which  answers  perfectly  to  the 
one  I  want,  but  you  found  an  exact  mate  to  the 
glove  which  you  examined  yesterday  morning.  You 
have  found  too  much.  If  you  had  found  the  hand 
without  the  glove,  or  the  glove  without  the  hand,  I 
would  feel  better  satisfied.  You  have  found  so 
much  at  the  first  blush,  which  being  established 
would  almost  justify  immediate  arrest,  it  shakes  my 
confidence.  I  am  afraid  your  imagination  ran  away 
with  you." 

"Not  in  this  instance,"  said  Dorison,  highly  dis- 
pleased and  disposed  to  resentment.  "There  could 
•  possibly  be  no  mistake." 

"My  sensation  is  one  of  disappointment,  and  I 
give  great  heed  to  my  sensations.  Perhaps  you  may 
be  entirely  right.  But  let  me  present  a  considera- 
tion to  you.  You  do  not  doubt  that  the  man  who 
lost  the  glove  failed  to  discover  his  loss,  do  you  ?" 

"  No." 

"  Then  having  done  so,  recollecting  where  he 
removed  it,  and  having  committed  the  murders, 
don't  you  think  he  would  be  worried  over  the  loss, 
and  would  fear  that  by  it  he  had  given  a  clue  to  a 
search  for  himself  ?  " 

"  Very  probably." 

"  Do  you  think  a  man  so  worried  would  don  an 
identically  similar  pair  and  go  into  so  conspicuous 
a  place  as  a  theater  ?  " 

"  Well,  what  do  you  argue  then  ?  " 


&Y  WAYS   UNKNOWN.  103 

"Either  that  you  have  been  grossly  mistaken, 
or  that  the  man  with  the  thumo  is  not  the  man 
we  want." 

"  You  are  discouraging." 

"  I  do  not  mean  to  be  so  ;  we  must  be  cautious 
in  so  important  a  matter  as  an  arrest." 

"  You  must  see  the  man  yourself  then,"  replied 
Dorison,  much  nettled.  "  I  can  do  no  more  than 
tell  you  I  have  found  a  man  whose  right  hand  cor- 
responds precisely  in  every  particular,  even  to  the 
peculiar  prominence  of  the  second  knuckle,  to  the 
hand  you  want,  and  who  wears  a  glove  precisely 
similar  to  the  one  I  saw  yesterday  morning.  Now," 
continued  Dorison,  growing  more  earnest,  "  when 
I  examined  that  glove  I  paid  less  attention  to  the 
form  of  the  hand  it  indicated,  than  to  the  make, 
kind  and  color  of  the  glove — particularly  the  color. 
I  accepted  your  description  of  the  hand  as  true. 
On  seeing  it,  I  saw  it  was  one  of  the  kind  a  man  of 
fashion  would  wear  in  the  evening." 

"Ah  !  "  cried  Cathcart,  interested.  "  Follow  up 
that  point.  Tell  me  what  you  mean  ?  " 

"  The  man  who  wore  it  was  in  full  dress.  Fash- 
ion's laws  are  inexorable.  At  present  it  prescribes 
just  that  kind  of  a  glove  for  evening  wear,  just  that 
color.  Probably  ten  thousand  men  wore  just  such 
a  glove  last  night  in  the  cities  of  the  East.  Now, 
that  young  man,  putting  on  full  dress,  would  natu- 
rally draw  on  one  of  that  kind.  You  said  the  man 
who  wore  the  glove  was  a  bit  of  a  dandy.  This 
man  is." 


104  THE  MAN  WITH  A   THUMB. 

"You  have  made  a  point,"  said  the  old  man. 
"  The  man  we  want,  besides  having  a  big  thumb 
and  prominent  joints,  was  tall  and  slim,  with 
brown  hair." 

Dorison's  face  fell.  He  had  forgotten  this 
requirement.  He  hesitated  to  reply. 

"  Well,"  said  Cathcart,  "  does  your  man  answer 
to  that  ? " 

"  No,"  replied  Dorison  sullenly.  "  He  was  short 
and  plump,  his  hair  was  light — a  golden  color." 

"  Then  he  is  either  not  the  man  we  want,  or  we 
have  come  upon  a  variation  in  our  theory.  How- 
ever," added  Cathcart,  "  that  is  not  to  say  your 
information  is  not  important.  Upon  the  contrary, 
it  is  highly  so.  You  must  follow  him  up  ;  make  his 
acquaintance,  gain  his  regard,  and  if  possible  get 
on  terms  of  intimacy  with  him.  When  you  have 
found  out  his  haunts  I  must  get  a  look  at  him." 

"You  would  do  all  this  believing  he  is  not  our 
man,"  asked  Dorison,  with  something  of  a  sneer. 

"  I  believe  nothing,"  replied  the  old  man  testily, 
"but  I  disbelieve  .nothing.  You  jump  at  conclu- 
sions. It  is  a  bad  fault,  especially  in  an  inquiry 
like  the  one  we  are  engaged  in.  You  came  here 
certain  you  had  found  the  murderer.  Now,  upon 
the  expression  of  a  possible  doubt,  you  are  certain 
he  is  not.  Yet  you  have  shown  me  a  flaw  in  my 
reasoning.  I  neither  believe  nor  disbelieve  at  this 
stage  of  the  game.  I  am  open  to  conviction  on  all 
sides.  This  man  with  the  thumb  must  be  followed 
up.  Obtain  his  name — all  about  him." 


&Y   WAYS  I'A'A'A'OWtf.  10$ 

"  I  had  two  chances  at  him  last  night.  I  saw  him 
afterward  at  the  Hoffman." 

"  Indeed.     Was  he  alone?" 

"  Yes,  at  the  Hoffman.  Though  a  man  who  had 
crossed  my  path  twice  before  during  the  day  accos- 
ted him." 

"A  friend  ?" 

"  Evidently  not.  My  man  was  cold  and  haughty 
toward  him — came  as  near  giving  him  a  dead  cut 
as  he  could  without  doing  so." 

"  Who  and  what  was  the  other  ?  " 

To  answer  that  question  involved  a  statement  of 
the  episode  of  rescuing  Miss  Eustace,  the  call  of 
the  father,  and  the  strange  incident  upon  the  cor- 
ner of  Third  Avenue  and  Twenth-ninth  Street. 

When  Dorison  finished,  the  old  man,  who  had 
been  an  attentive  listener,  said  : 

"  The  meeting  of  these  two  men  was  mysterious. 
Something  wrong  there.  So  this  man  spoke  to 
your  man,  eh  ?  " 

"  Yes,  attempted  to,  but  was  repelled  by  the 
other." 

"  Mr.  Eustace  discovered  your  strong  resem- 
blance to  your  father.  You  must  follow  that  up. 
You  must  cultivate  his  acquaintance." 

"  To  what  end  ?  " 

"He  was  intimate  with  your  father,  and  you  may 
find  him  valuable  in  solving  the  mystery  of  that 
unfinished  letter." 

"  Oh,"  exclaimed  Dorison,  with  peculiar  empha- 
sis, "  I  had  supposed  that  inquiry  was  lost  sight  of 
in  the  superior  importance  of  the  other." 


Io6  THE  MAN  WITH  A   THUMB. 

The  old  man  keenly  regarded  the  other,  as  he 
gave  expression  to  the  slight  sarcasm. 

"  Do  you  not  know,"  said  Cathcart,  impres- 
sively, "  that  in  the  revelation  of  the  mystery  of 
one,  the  mystery  of  the  other  will  be  revealed  ? " 

Somewhat  abashed,  Dorison  hesitated  before  he 
replied  : 

"  You  have  not  been  particularly  communicative 
as  to  your  theories.  I  have  followed  you  blindly." 

"  I  believe  success  is  more  surely  attained  by  keep- 
ing my  plans  to  myself,"  replied  Cathcart  calmly. 

"  I  do  not  complain,"  replied  Dorison  hastily. 
"I  recognize  my  own  want  of  skill,  and  therefore 
am  content  to  obey  implicitly." 

"  And  thereby  be  most  useful.  Now  seek  this 
man  of  yours.  You  need  not  come  to  me  until  you 
have  learned  all  you  can.  Let  me  tell  you  for 
your  own  satisfaction,  that  notwithstanding  your 
belief  that  the  one  thing  in  which  you  are  particu- 
larly interested  is  being  overlooked,  that  I  have 
devoted  the  past  three  days,  and  will  possibly  for 
several  days  to  come,  to  a  most  searching  inquiry 
into  the  relations  your  father  maintained  for  the 
years  immediate'ly  preceding  his  death.  What  I 
have  learned  I  shall  not  tell  you,  for  I  have  not 
yet  digested  it.  As  soon  as  you  can  accomplish  it, 
arrange  so  I  can  get  a  good  look  at  your  man." 

Dorison,  as  he  walked  away  from  Cathcart,  felt  as 
if  he  was  a  very  inexperienced  man,  and  had  much 
yet  to  learn  of  the  ways  of  the  world. 

It  was  in  this  frame  of  mind  that  he  sought  the 


BY  WAYS   UNKNOWN.  107 

Hoffman  House  for  breakfast.  The  hour  was  not 
early,  and  he  was  enabled  to  obtain  one  of  those 
tables  adjoining  the  windows  looking  out  on  Broad- 
way, where  he  could  watch  the  tide  of  humanity  as 
it  floated  by.  He  was  so  much  engrossed  in  this 
watching  that  he  did  not  observe  a  gentleman  ris- 
ing from  a  table  near  him,  and  cross  the  room  to 
his  own  table.  It  was  Bushnell,  the  one  whom  he 
had  seen  in  the  theater  the  previous  evening  with 
the  man  with  the  thumb. 

"  I  suppose  an  apology  for  my  abrupt  departure 
last  evening  is  due  you,  Mr.  Dudley,"  he  said. 

Dorison  replied  courteously  : 

"  The  apology  was  made  in  the  very  cause  of 
interruption." 

"  I  am  glad  you  take  it  so  politely.  I'll  answer 
your  question  now.  The  name  of  the  gentleman 
you  inquired  about  is  Eustace,  and  there  is  no 
better  fellow  alive  than  Charley  Eustace." 

"  Eustace  !  "  said  Dorison  in  surprise.  "  Eus- 
tace !  indeed.  What  Eustace  ?  " 

"  He  is  the  son  of  Herbert  Clavering  Eustace, 
an  old  New  York  family  of  wealth  and  social  posi- 
tion. Charley  has  been  abroad  for  many  years, 
having  only  returned  a  few  months  ago.  Do  you 
know  the  family  ? " 

"  I  can  hardly  say  I  do,  although  I  had  a  call 
from  Mr.  Eustace  yesterday  evening.  Earlier  in 
the  day  I  had  the  honor  of  saving  his  daughter 
from  being  run  over  on  Broadway,  and  he  called  to 
acknowledge  the  service." 


io8  THE  MAN  WITH  A    THUMB. 

"  Indeed  !  "  replied  Bushnell,  "  was  she  injured  ? 
I  heard  last  evening  she  was  ill — I  presume  it  was 
she  who  was  ill — there  are  two  daughters,  you 
know." 

"  I  did  not  know  it,"  answered  Dorison.  "  Miss 
Eustace  was  not  injured,  though  she  was  knocked 
down  by  a  horse  ;  but  that  she  might  be  ill  from 
the  shock  she  received,  I  can  readily  believe." 

"  Yes  it  must  be  she,"  returned  Bushnell.  "  Char- 
ley, who  had  not  been  home  to  dinner — indeed  he 
maintains  bachelor  apartments — did  not  know  of  it 
last  night  when  we  were  together.  She  is  a  charm- 
ing girl." 

Dorison  did  not  reply  for  a  moment  or  two.  His 
mind  was  busy  with  thoughts  of  how  singularly  the 
affairs  of  these  people  were  becoming  tangled  with 
his  own. 

His  companion  rattled  on  : 

"  I  saw  you  were  much  attracted  to  Charley  last 
evening.  Everybody  is.  He  carries  the  stamp  of 
his  good-fellowship  on  his  face." 

"  I  was  much  interested  in  him.  Does  he  follow 
a  profession  ! " 

"  No  ;  he  has  studied  surgery  here  and  abroad." 

Dorison  gave  such  a  visible  start  that  his  com- 
panion stopped  in  wonderment  and  looked  at  him. 

"  It  is  nothing,"  said  Dorison,  casting  about  for 
a  reason  for  his  involuntary  manifestation  of  sur- 
prise. "  I  saw  a  man  that  moment  on  the  street  I 
could  have  sworn  was  two  thousand  miles  from  here. 
You  say  your  friend  studied  surgery  abroad  ?  " 


BY  WAYS   UNKNOWN.  109 

"  Yes,  here  and  abroad.  But  I  doubt  if  he  will 
ever  practice  it.  He  is  independently  wealthy  by 
the  will  of  an  uncle,  and  he  has  his  share  in  his 
father's  estate,  which  is  not  small.  Would  you 
like  to  meet  him  ?  " 

"  Very  much  mdeed." 

"  He  will  dine  with  me  to-night  here  at  six,  and 
if  you  will  join  us  in  this  room  at  that  hour  I  will 
be  pleased  to  have  you." 

Accepting  the  invitation  gladly,  the  two  young 
men  parted  at  the  door  of  the  restaurant. 

"  Fortune  favors  me,"  muttered  Dorison  to  him- 
self. "  The  opportunity  to  observe  the  young  man 
Cathcart  desired  is  made  for  him.  I  must  find 
him  and  give  him  notice." 

The  work  of  finding  the  old  detective  was  not 
so  easy,  and  the  greater  part  of  the  day  was  con- 
sumed in  the  search.  Indeed,  when  he  was  found, 
there  was  barely  time  left  Dorison  in  which  to  pre- 
pare for  dinner  and  meet  his  engagement. 


CHAPTER    XL 

TALL,  SLIM,  WITH    BROWN    HAIR. 

pATHCART  had  said  he  would  be  present  at 
vy  the  Hoffman  cafe  at  the  time  of  the  dinner. 

Consequently,  when  the  three  gathered  about  a 
round  table  in  the  middle  of  the  room  on  the  cor- 
ner of  Broadway  and  Twenty-fifth  Street,  Dorison 
looked  about  for  the  old  detective.  He  was  not 
present  as  yet.  Noting  his  absence,  but  believing 
he  would  soon  appear,  he  gave  himself  up  to  the 
enjoyment  of  the  dinner. 

It  progressed  with  a  good  deal  of  light,  humor- 
ous talk,  much  of  it  devoted  to  the  long  sojourn  of 
Eustace  abroad  and  his  experience  there.  If  Dori- 
son had  been  attracted  by  Eustace's  appearance, 
he  was  doubly  so  when  brought  into  close  personal 
contact.  Modest,  light-hearted,  gay,  brimming  with 
intelligence  and  overflowing  with  humor,  Dorison 
thought  he  was  the  most  engaging  person  he  had 
ever  met,  and  recollection  of  the  tragedy  in  which 
he  was  supposed  to  have  borne  so  horrible  a  part 
passed  away  under  the  influence  of  the  hour.  The 
doubt  thrown  by  Cathcart  upon  the  accuracy  of 
his  own  conclusions,  contributed  not  a  little  to  this 
result. 

.Dorison   and    Eustace   were   manifestly   drawn 
no 


TALL,  SLIM,   WITH  BROWN  HAIR.         HI 

toward  each  other  ;  it  was  plain  to  Bushnell  that 
they  had  discovered  a  great  liking  for  each  other 
almost  at  first  sight,  and  they  did  not  part  for  the 
evening  until  they  had  made  plans  for  an  early 
meeting. 

In  the  mean  time,  however,  Dorison  wondered 
why  Cathcart  did  not  come.  He  was  anxious  to 
have  him  do  so,  for  he  desired  the  old  detective 
should  see  he  had  made  no  mistake.  Further,  he 
desired  to  tell  the  old  man  what  he  had  learned 
earlier  in  the  day — that  Eustace  had  studied 
surgery — a  fact  he  had  suppressed  until  after  the 
detective  had  confirmed  the  accuracy  of  his  own 
observations.  The  dinner  was  drawing  to  a  close, 
and  still  the  old  detective  had  not  put  in  an 
appearance,  to  his  great  disappointment. 

Finally  Eustace  and  Bushnell  rose,  bent  upon  an 
engagement  they  had  previously  made.  As  they 
donned  their  overcoats,  a  man  with  black  bushy 
beard  and  hair,  who  had  been  sitting  at  an  adjoin- 
ing table,  rose  also,  and  passed  close  to  Dorison  on 
his  way  out.  The  latter  felt  a  slip  of  paper  thrust 
between  his  fingers. 

So  soon  as  he  could  he  looked  at  the  slip.  It 
was  a  bit  torn  from  the  margin  of  a  newspaper,  and 
on  it  was  penciled  these  words  :  "  Wait  for  me  in 
the  office  of  the  hotel." 

Wondering  who  the  stranger  could  be,  and  what 
business  he  could  have  with  him,  and  speculating 
as  to  what  the  message  so  strangely  communicated 
could  portend,  Dorison  lit  a  cigar  and  wandered 


112  THE  MAN  WITH  A    THUMB. 

into  the  office.  Pacing  up  and  down  the  long  cor- 
ridor  he  thought  upon  the  singularity  of  events 
which  had  crowded  upon  him  during  the  previous 
forty-eight  hours.  He  marveled  to  note  how  each 
seemed  in  some  manner  to  hinge  upon  the  others. 
While  all  this  aroused  a  deep  interest  within  him, 
it  also  caused  a  feeling  of  unrest,  of  feverish  excite- 
ment Yet  this  had  the  compensating  effect  of  tak- 
ing him  out  of  that  condition  of  despondency  and 
melancholy  which  had-  become  almost  a  part  of  his 
nature.  While  he  was  speculating  upon  the  possi- 
ble outcome  of  these  events,  Cathcart  suddenly 
appeared  before  him. 

"  You  were  wholly  right,"  he  said  quietly,  before 
Dorison  could  remark  upon  his  failure  to  appear 
in  time.  "  It  is  the  hand  and  the  glove  as  well.  I 
observed  the  gloves  as  he  put  them  on." 

Dorison  stared  at  him  in  astonishment.  A  light 
broke,  upon  him. 

"  You  were  the  man  with  black  hair  and  beard," 
he  said. 

"  Yes  ;  didn't  you  know  me  ?  " 

"  Know  you.  I  did  not  dream  it  was  you.  You 
were  completely  disguised." 

"  You  did  your  work  excellently  well,"  said  Cath- 
cart, ignoring  the  compliment,  as  if  disguises  were 
matters  of  hourly  occurrence.  "  But  I  was  never 
more  puzzled  than  I  am  now.  If  one  could  only 
trust  to  appearances.  If  I  were  to  do  so  in  this 
case  I  would  dismiss  all  idea  of  young  Eustace 
being  implicated  in  that  murder  as  preposterous. 


TALL,  SLIM,  WITH  BROWN  HAIR.         113 

I  had  my  lesson,  however,  twenty  years  ago.  I 
was  given  the  work  of  tracing  the  murder  of  a  whole 
family  in  a  town  in  Illinois.  Indications  pointed 
to  a  young  girl  living  in  the  family.  When  I  saw 
her  sweet,  soft,  innocent  eyes,  her  face  almost 
angelic  in  its  expressions,  and  her  pretty  coaxing 
manners,  I  dismissed  suspicion  of  her  and  went  off 
on  a  theory  which  led  to  nothing.  She  moved  away, 
and  two  years  after  was  caught  in  the  very  act  of 
crime.  Having  been  convicted,  she  confessed  these 
murders,  and  an  examination  into  her  life  showed 
her  to  be  a  monster  of  depravity.  It  was  incon- 
ceivable that  one  so  young  and  tender  could  be  so 
black." 

"  You  have  returned  to  the  theory  then  that 
Eustace  is  the  man  you  want,"  commented  Dori- 
son,  disappointment  and  regret  plainly  visible.  • 

"  I  have  neither  returned  to  nor  abandoned  that 
theory,"  replied  Cathcart.  "  I  hold  everything  in 
abeyance  pending  further  inquiry.  Our  puzzle 
does  not  fit — the  pieces  do  not  match.  We  sup- 
posed that  the  wearer  of  that  glove  was  tall  and 
slim  with  brown  hair.  In  other  words,  that  the 
wearer  of  the  glove,  the  tall,  slim  man,  and  the 
walker  in  Union  Square  were  one  and  the  same 
man.  What  we  have  discovered  is,  that  the  wearer 
of  the  glove  is  one  person.  Whether  the  tall,  slim 
man  and  the  exquisite  of  Union  Square  are  one  or 
two  persons,  has  yet  to  be  determined.  My  theory 
has  gone  astray  just  so  far.  What  was  it  we  learned 
in  school  ? — Falsus  in  uno  falsus  in  omnibus.  If  I 


H4  THE  MAN  WITH  A    THUMB. 

am  wrong  in  one  particular  I  may  be  wrong  in 
all." 

"  Eustace  could  not  have  been  either  the  caller 
at  stated  intervals  nor  the  exquisite  of  Union 
Square,  exquisite  though  he  is." 

"Why?" 

"  Because  he  has  been  continuously  absent  from 
the  country  for  six  years,  until  four  months  ago." 

"  Another  complexity.  Why  should  he  return 
home  after  so  long  an  absence  to  murder  two  inof- 
fensive women  ?" 

"  He  is  a  surgical  student,  having  studied  here 
and  abroad,"  said  Dorison. 

"  The  devil  !  "  said  Cathcart.  "  The  proofs  ac- 
cumulate against  him.  You  know  that  to  be  true  ?  " 

"His  friend  Bushnell  told  me  so." 

"  The  case  presents  more  perplexities  than  any  I 
ever  was  engaged  in." 

"Those  gloves  were  not  made  in  this  country," 
said  Dorison  irrelevantly,  though  thoughtfully. 

"  Just  what  I  have  been  thinking  since  you  told  me 
he  has  but  recently  returned  from  Europe.  Well," 
continued  the  old  detective,  "  there  has  been  sub- 
stantial gain.  We  have  discovered  the  owner  of  the 
glove,  and  at  the  proper  time  we  can  compel  him  to 
explain  its  close  proximity  to  the  body  of  the  mur- 
dered woman.  He  must  have  had  some  relation 
to  the  woman,  and  if  not  guilty  of  the  murder, 
must  be  possessed  of  knowledge  concerning  them. 
You  must  gain  his  confidence.  You  are  in  a  fair 
way  to  do  it." 


TALL,  SLIM,  WITH  BROWN  HAIR.         US 

"  I  never  entered  upon  an  enterprise  with  greater 
reluctance  or  loathing,"  replied  Dorison.  "  I  freely 
confess  I  have  an  extraordinary  liking  for  the 
young  fellow.  It  seems  like  treachery  to  seek  his 
friendship  to  his  own  undoing." 

"  That  does  not  necessarily  follow,"  sharply  re- 
plied Cathcart.  "  But  you  must  put  aside  all  such 
notions,  if  you  propose  to  succeed  in  your  search. 
Recollect  the  interest  you  have  at  stake — the 
rehabilitation  of  your  own  good  name." 

"  I  know,  I  know,"  hastily  responded  Dorison. 
"  Nothing  shall  swerve  me  from  that.  But  even 
with  this  before  me  I  cannot  repress  a  feeling 
of  regret  for  that  proud  father  and  tender  sister 
when  disaster  shall  overtake  the  son  and  brother, 
nor  the  remorse  I  feel  in  anticipation  that  I  shall 
be  an  instrument  of  its  precipitation." 

"  Better  curb  that  imagination  of  yours  until  you 
see  that  you  have  precipitated  disaster  upon  them," 
said  Cathcart  contemptuously,  evidently  annoyed 
at  what  he  thought  was  a  lack  of  proper  spirit. 

A  moment  later,  his  mind  having  reverted  to  the 
practical  bearings  of  the  matter,  he  said  : 

"  Cultivate  an  intimacy  ;  become  a  visitor  to  his 
family  ;  impress  yourself  upon  the  father,  and  get 
him  to  talk  of  your  own  father  if  possible." 

Nettled,  stung  indeed,  by  the  way  the  old  man 
had  treated  his  sentimental  outburst,  Dorison  steeled 
himself  and  replied  curtly  : 

"  Give  me  your  instructions.  They  shall  be 
obeyed  to  the  best  of  my  ability." 


Ii6  THE  MAN  WITH  A    THUMB. 

The  old  man  fixed  his  keen  eyes  upon  the  younger 
one  for  a  moment,  and  turned  as  if  to  leave  him. 
As  he  did  so,  Dorison  hastily  placed  his  hand  on 
the  detective's  arm,  detaining  him  and  whispering  : 

"  Do  you  see  that  man  who  has  just  entered 
alone  ?  " 

«  Yes." 

"  That  is  the  one  who  crossed  my  path  three 
times  yesterday — first,  when  I  rescued  Miss  Eustace  ; 
second,  when  I  saw  him  have  that  mysterious  meet- 
ing at  Twenty-ninth  Street  and  Third  Avenue,  and 
lastly  when  he  attempted  to  speak  with  Eustace  and 
was  rebuffed." 

"  Ah  !  "  said  Cathcart,  as  he  closely  watched  the 
young  man  walk  up  the  long  corridor. 

"  Tall,  slim,  and  brown  haired,"  he  muttered. 

Dorison  started  with  surprise. 

"  Dressed  in  clothes  of  extreme  fashion,"  added 
Cathcart. 

Dorison  felt  his  heart  bound. 

"  Dissipated  and  fast  in  appearance." 

Dorison  saw  the  resemblance  and  the  pertinency 
of  the  old  detective's  words. 

"  He  answers  to  the  description  of  both,"  con- 
tinued Cathcart.  "  Stay  where  you  are  and  keep 
yourself  out  of  sight." 

Cathcart  sauntered  after  the  young  man,  who 
had  disappeared  in  the  direction  of  the  art  gal- 
lery. 

Dorison  retired  behind  the  pile  of  trunks  which 
encumbered  a  part  of  the  corridor.  The  old  detec- 


TALL,  SLIM,  WITH  BROWN  HAIR.         1 17 

live  was  not  gone  long.  When  he  returned  it  was 
with  a  letter. 

"  There  is  a  letter  to  Captain  Lawton,"  he  said. 
"Jump  into  a  cab  and  promise  the  driver  three 
times  the  amount  of  his  fare  to  get  you  quick  to 
Headquarters.  That  letter  asks  for  a  discreet  and 
intelligent  shadow.  Bring  him  back  with  you  in 
the  cab.  I  will  wait  for  you  here,  unless  the  man 
goes  out,  when  I  will  follow  him.  In  that  event  let 
the  shadow  go  to  my  rooms  and  await  me  there." 

Dorison  without  question  did  as  he  was  bid.  As 
he  rode  speedily  through  the  streets,  his  spirits  and 
excitement  rose.  This  appeared  to  be  real  work, 
real  activity  ;  not  aimless  dawdling  ;  something  the 
reason  of  which  he  could  see.  Progress  was  being 
really  made.  He  experienced  an  energy  and  exhila- 
ration he  had  not  felt  before.  Moreover,  he  hailed 
the  sudden  concentration  of  attention  upon  the 
part  of  Cathcart  upon  the  new  person,  as  removing, 
or  at  least  diverting,  suspicion  from  Eustace. 
This  made  him  glad.  He  made  no  doubt  but  that 
in  the  brief  interval  of  the  absence  of  the  old  detec- 
tive something  significant  had  occurred,  which 
had  justified  this  sudden  energy.  Reaching  Head- 
quarters he  delivered  his  letter,  and  a  moment  later 
was  leading  the  way  to  his  cab,  followed  by  the  man 
hastily  summoned,  and  was  soon  driving  back  as 
rapidly. 

Entering  the  hotel,  Cathcart  met  them. 

"  He  is  still  here,"  he  said  to  Dorison.  "  Stay 
where  you  are.  I  will  rejoin  you  in  a  moment." 


Il8  THE  MAN  WITH  A    THUMB. 

To  the  shadow  he  said  : 

"  I  will  in  a  moment  point  out  a  man  to  you.  I 
want  to  know  his  name,  his  business,  his  associa- 
tions, his  habits,  in  fact  all  you  can  learn  about 
him.  Report  to  me  at  any  hour  of  the  day  or 
night  you  may  happen  to  have  information. 
Here's  my  address.  Now  follow  me." 

He  went  directly  into  the  art  gallery  and  pointed 
out  the  man  sitting  at  a  table  near  the  door,  which 
the  young  man  was  watching,  without  being 
observed  by  the  object  of  their  attention. 

"That  is  your  man,"  said  Cathcart.  "Find 
out  especially  where  he  lives  and  what  places  he 
haunts." 

Cathcart  returned  to  Dorison,  who  was  awaiting 
his  return  with  impatience. 

"  What  has  occurred  ?  "  he  asked  anxiously. 

"  Nothing,"  replied  the  old  detective  curtly.  "I 
shall  go  to  bed  now.  I  am  tired.  You  have  done 
a  good  day's  work  to-day." 

What  further  might  have  passed  between  them 
was  prevented  by  the  appearance  of  the  young  man 
on  his  way  out  of  the  hotel. 

The  shadow  was  behind  him. 

"  Good-night,"  said  Cathcart,  as  he  too  moved 
off. 

Dorison  had  already  learned  not  to  question 
him,  and  so  he  did  not  seek  to  detain  the  old  man. 

He  too  went  out  in  the  night  air  to  cool  his 
burning  excitement. 


CHAPTER   XII. 

NARROWING    THE    CIRCLE. 

THE  days  immediately  following  the  exciting 
events  which  have  been  detailed  in  the  previ- 
ous chapters  were  uneventful. 

Dorison  had  fallen  again  into  what  he  called 
aimless  dawdling.  The  high  hopes  of  rapid  pro- 
gress he  had  begun  to  entertain  died  within  him, 
and  despair  took  possession. 

The  shadow  had  faithfully  followed  his  man  and 
had  reported  to  Cathcart. 

"  The  name  of  the  man  was  Harry  Langdon  ;  he 
had  come  from  Chicago  three  years  previously,  and 
was  supposed  to  be  a  man  of  independent  means 
since  he  had  no  occupation  ;  lived  generally  a  fast 
life  ;  associated  to  some  extent  with  professional 
gamblers  ;  seemed  to  know  a  good  many  loose 
characters  and  'crooked  '  men  without  associating 
with  any  of  them  ;  visited  a  woman  who  claimed 
to  be  his  wife,  in  Twenty-sixth  Street  near  Third 
Avenue,  but  yet  had  separate  apartments  at  No.  — 
Twenty-eighth  Street,  between  Third  and  Lexing- 
ton avenues ;  was  intimate  with  a  Dr.  Fassett,  a 
physician  of  repute,  who  called  upon  him  every 
morning  either  at  Twenty-eighth  Street  or  Twenty- 
ninth  Street,  always  seeming  to  be  well  informed  as 
119 


120  THE  MAN'  WITH  A   THUMB. 

to  which  place  he  was  at ;  after  this  call  Langdon 
walked  up  Twenty-eighth  or  Twenty-ninth  Street, 
as  the  case  might  be,  to  Madison  Avenue,  thence  to 
Madison  Square,  crossing  diagonally  to  the  corner 
of  Twenty-third  Street,  thence  to  Sixth  Avenue,  to 
a  restaurant,  where  he  breakfasted  and  where  he 
read  the  papers  for  an  hour  or  two,  and  met  one  or 
two  of  a  half  dozen  who  came  to  see  him  there  ; 
from  thence  he  went  whither  chance  or  fancy  led 
him  ;  he  had  the  entree  to  all  the  gambling  saloons, 
where  he  played  frequently  but  irregularly,  and 
always  faro  ;  his  haunts  were  places  of  fashionable 
resort,  and  he  was  a  frequent  attendant  upon  the 
theaters." 

In  telling  Dorison  of  this  report,  Cathcart  said  it 
was  the  best  shadow  work  that  had  ever  been  done 
for  him. 

While  these  days  were  passing,  the  acquaintance 
between  Dorison  and  yo'ung  Eustace  was  fast  ripen- 
ing into  intimacy.  The  two  young  men  saw  much 
of  each  other's  apartments,  and  frequented  the 
theaters  together.  Of  the  two,  Eustace  seemed  to 
be  the  more  anxious  to  cultivate  the  intimacy. 
There  were  times  in  these  days,  indeed,  when 
Dorison  shrank  from  this  growing  friendship,  in 
•which  he  felt  he  was  playing  a  traitorous  part,  and 
could  only  key  himself  up  to  its  continuance  by 
constant  recurrence  to  the  thought  he  was  thus 
performing  a  sacred  duty  he  owed  himself. 

Carried  by  his  friend  to  the  Eustace  residence,  he 
had  been  received  with  great  civility  and  with  every 


NARROWING  THE  CIRCLE.  121 

apparent  disposition  to  treat  him  as  a  friend  of  the 
young  gentleman  of  the  house.  He  had  been  pre- 
sented to  the  ladies  of  the  family  and  had  been 
received  cordially,  and  especially  by  the  one  he  had 
rescued,  with  all  the  warmth  his  service  deserved, 
and  all  the  reserve  modesty  demanded. 

Charmed  with  the  household,  he  forgot  the  part 
he  was  playing  while  within  it. 

In  time,  he  was  invited  to  a  formal  dinner  and 
gladly  accepted  the  invitation  as  determining  his 
status  as  a  friend  of  the  family. 

On  this  occasion,  after  the  ladies  had  retired 
from  the  table,  the  elder  Mr.  Eustace,  moving  to  a 
seat  beside  Dorison,  again  referred  to  the  extraor- 
dinary resemblance  the  latter  bore  to  his  father.  In 
an  endeavor  to  avoid  denying  a  relationship,  Dori- 
son tried  to  divert  the  conversation.  Mr.  Eustace, 
however,  was  politely  persistent,  seeking  to  inquire 
into  the  antecedents  of  his  guest,  with  a  view  to 
finding  if  he  could  not  establish  a  blood  connec- 
tion. Dorison  was  not  adroit  in  his  fence,  and 
contented  himself  with  simply  saying  that  he  was 
from  Dubuque,  and  therefore  could  not  be  supposed 
to  bear  any  relation  to  so  old  a  New  York  family. 
Indeed,  his  effort  to  escape  a.  discussion  of  the  sub- 
ject was  so  marked,  that  Mr.  Eustace  forebore  fur- 
ther questioning.  Dorison  saw  at  once  that  he  had 
committed  a  blunder,  for  the  old  gentleman  froze  to 
him  immediately.  Too  scrupulously  polite  to  offer 
indignity  to  a  guest  whom  he  had  deliberately 
invited  to  his  table,  nevertheless  Mr.  Eustace  made 


122  THE  MAN  WITH  A   THUMB. 

Dorison  feel  uncomfortable,  so  uncomfortable 
indeed  that  he  seized  the  first  opportunity  to 
steal  away. 

The  episode  greatly  annoyed  Dorison,  first, 
because  it  foreshadowed  an  interruption  in  the 
relations  he  had  but  just  established  with  the  Eus- 
tace household,  and,  secondly,  because  he  had  stu- 
pidly evaded  the  very  opportunity  to  induce  Mr. 
Eustace  to  talk  about  his  own  relations  to  the  elder 
Dorison,  Cathcart  had  so  earnestly  desired  him  to 
make. 

That  he  could  not  falsify  about  himself  in  that 
house,  above  any  other,  was  the  excuse  he  offered 
to  himself.  Had  he  undertaken  to  present  the 
same  excuse  to  Cathcart,  it  is  to  be  very  much 
feared  that  that  eminently  practical  and  extremely 
logical  gentleman  would  have  bluntly  said,  he  had 
already  falsified  in  permitting  himself  to  be  intro- 
duced as  Dudley,  and  that  a  little  more  falsifica- 
tion, in  view  of  the  end  to  be  gained,  would  have 
done  no  more  harm.  As  it  was,  he  went  to  bed 
thoroughly  disgusted  with  himself,  and  wholly  dis- 
satisfied with  the  life  he  was  leading. 

Quite  early,  that  is  to  say  early  for  the  habits  he 
had  fallen  into,  he  was  aroused  by  a  message  from 
Cathcart,  brought  him  by  the  officer  who  had 
shadowed  Langdon,  and  who  seemed  permanently 
attached  to  the  old  detective.  The  message  bade 
him  go  as  soon  as  he  could  to  No.  —  East  Twen- 
tieth Street. 

Dorison  had   now  been   long  enough    in   asso- 


NARROWING  THE  CIRCLE.  1^3 

ciation  with  the  old  man,  not  to  be  surprised  at 
any  message.  He  therefore  hastened  to  comply, 
but  yet  wondering  what  it  could  portend,  and 
what  the  house  was  to  which  he  was  called. 
Arriving  at  the  address,  his  wonder  was  increased 
when  he  found  it  to  be  a  brownstone  front  of  the 
first  class.  Nor  was  his  wonder  lessened,  on  being 
admitted  without  question  by  the  servant  in  attend- 
ance, and  in  a  manner  which  indicated  his  coming 
was  expected.  A  rapid  glance  assured  him  that 
he  was  in  the  interior  of  a  private  residence,  and 
one,  also,  which  presented  the  evidences  of  wealth 
and  refinement.  His  wonder  grew  with  each 
moment,  and  he  felt  as  if  he  was  entering  upon  an 
adventure  of  interest. 

Without  a  word  upon  the  part  of  the  servant  he 
was  ushered  into  a  richly  furnished  apartment 
upon  the  right  of  the  hall.  At  first  his  eyes,  not 
yet  accustomed  to  the  darkened  room,  could  but 
dimly  distinguish  three  figures,  but  he  soon  real- 
ized he  was  in  the  presence  of  an  old  lady,  an 
elderly,  clerical  looking  gentleman,  and  Cathcart. 

"  This  is  the  young  gentleman,"  said  Cathcart, 
rising  as  he  entered. 

"  Mrs.  Belknap,  I  introduce  to  you  Mr.  Dudley  ; 
Mr.  Carman,  Mr.  Dudley,  the  Rev.  Mr.  Car- 
man." 

Motioning  to  Dorison  to  be  seated,  as  if  he  were 
dispensing  the  hospitality  of  the  house,  in  that 
masterful  manner  which  seemed  to  make  him  the 
leader  wherever  he  was  placed,  the  old  detective 


1 24  THE  MAN  WITH  A   THUMB. 

continued    the  remarks  the  entrance  of   Dorison 
had  evidently  interrupted. 

"  I  regard  this  step,"  he  said,  "  as  most  essential 
to  my  search,  or  I  would  not  have  asked  so  great 
a  favor.  And  neither  would  I  have  presumed  to 
ask  it  were  I  not  certain  I  had  convinced  the  Rev. 
Mr.  Carman  of  its  importance.  His  presence  here 
is  a  guarantee  of  my  good  faith." 

Dorison,  who  had  taken  his  seat,  did  not  make 
any  remark,  principally,  perhaps,  because  none 
was  addressed  to  him,  and  perhaps,  for  the  other, 
that  he  did  not  know  in  what  character  he  was 
presented  to  these  people,  and  therefore  waited  for 
some  cue  from  Cathcart. 

The  old  detective  now  turned  abruptly  to  Dori- 
son and  said  : 

"  Mr.  Dudley,  that  man  Langdon,  in  whose  iden- 
tity you  have  an  interest  for  your  own  case,  as  I 
have  with  reference  to  his  possible  relations  to 
the  Parishes,  enters  Madison  Square  every  morn- 
ing and  crosses  to  Twenty-third  Street.  Through 
my  urgency  Miss  Belknap  has  consented  to  accom- 
pany you  to  the  Square  to  see  if  she  can  recognize 
the  man  you  will  point  out  to  her.  I  will  be  in  the 
Square  at  the  same  time." 

Before  Dorison  could  seek  further  information, 
a  young  lady,  attired  for  the  street,  entered.  Dori- 
son thought  that  an  expression  upon  her  face  indi- 
cated she  was  not  well  pleased  with  the  mission  she 
was  about  to  enter  upon,  but  also  thought  he  rec- 
ognized, with  some  self-flattery,  that  when  he  was 


NARROWING  THE  CIRCLE.  125 

presented,  the  expression  changed  to  one  of  satis- 
faction. At  all  events,  she  accepted  him  graciously. 

"Now,  you  cannot  get  there  any  too  quickly," 
said  Cathcart,  with  his  energetic  manner,  hurrying 
them  off. 

In  a  moment  more  they  were  upon  the  street 
and  walking  in  the  direction  of  Fourth  Avenue. 

Both  were  evidently  under  some  constraint,  feel- 
ing, as  Dorison  put  it  afterwards,  as  if  they  had  been 
pitchforked  together. 

"Perhaps,  Miss  Belknap,"  he  said,  "you  will  do 
me  the  favor  of  explaining  the  purpose  and  object 
of  this  expedition." 

The  lady  cast  an  upward  glance  of  incredulity  as 
she  asked:  » 

"Do  you  not  know?" 

"Beyond  the  fact  that  I  have  been  imperatively 
summoned  from  my  slumbers  at  an  unconscionably 
early  hour,  and  that  I  am  to  point  out  a  man  whom 
you  are  to  say  whether  or  not  you  recognize.  I 
know  absolutely  nothing." 

"Really,"  replied  the  young  lady,  as  fun  and 
mischief  twinkled  in  her  eyes,  causing  Dorison  to 
reflect  that  those  organs  were  very  pretty  and  attrac- 
tive, "really,  our  adventure  is  beginning  to  take  on 
an  air  of  mystery.  Are  you  always  so  amiable  that 
you  obey  summons  without  knowing  the  reason  of 
them?" 

Dorison  perceived  she  did  not  believe  his  asser- 
tion, and  was  desiring  him  to  understand  she 
thought  he  was  mildly  chaffing  her. 


t2<5  Tti£  MAN  WITH  A   THUMB. 

"I  assure  you  what  I  say  is  true,"  he  returned 
earnestly.  "You  have  no  idea  what  an  inexorable 
master  you  engage  when  you  employ  Mr.  Cathcart. 
He  has  reduced  me  to  such  a  state  of  submission 
that  I  run,  fetch  and  carry  at  the  least  nod  of  his 
imperious  head,  or  the  least  crook  of  his  potent 
fingers." 

"Do  you  mean  to  say,"  she  asked,  her  eyes  danc- 
ing with  merriment,  "that  he  has  not  confided  to 
you  his  purpose  in  sending  us  out." 

"He has  not  confided  anything  tome.  He  rarely 
does,"  replied  Dorison  lugubriously.  "When  my 
curiosity  is  excited  slightly,  he  sits  down  on  me 
crushingly  with  the  remark  that  he  confides  his  plans 
to  no  one,  and  I  remain  silent  with  fear  and  tremb- 
ling." 

The  little  lady  laughed  outright  at  the  mock  con- 
fession of  submission,  and  inquired : 

"Is  not  this  connected  with  the  search  for  the 
murderer  of  Mrs.  Parish  and  poor  Anne?  And 
are  you  not  interested  in  those  poor  creatares?" 

"As  you,  or  any  one  else,  reading  an  account  of 
their  shocking  murder,  might  be,"  he  replied. 
"But  I  never  even  heard  of  them  until  after  they 
were  dead,"  following  what  he  supposed  to  be  the 
clue  given  him  by  the  old  detective  in  his  introduc- 
tion. 

"I  cannot  understand  it,"  said  the  young  lady. 
"What  relation  do  you  bear  to  Mr.  Cathcart's 
search  for  the  murderer?" 

"None." 


A'AXA'Oll'JXG   THE  CIRCLE.  127 

"Why  does  he  call  upon  you  for  that  service 
you  so  much  lament  then?"  she  persisted. 

"Mr.  Cathcart  is  conducting  an  inquiry  in  a 
matter  which  closely  concerns  and  affects  me — an 
inquiry  which  he  has  undertaken  at  my  desire." 

"Oh,"  she  cried  merrily,  "You  have  engaged  a 
servant  and  found  a  master.  But  how  does  it  touch 
the  Farish  murder." 

Not  knowing  just  what  Cathcart  had  said  before 
his  arrival,  he  hardly  knew  how  to  reply.  After  a 
brief  moment  he  said: 

"That  I  don't  know.  Mr.  Cathcart  evidently 
thinks  this  Mr.  Langdon  has  some  relation  to  my 
affair.  Does  he  also  think  he  has  relation  to  the 
Farish  murder?" 

The  young  lady  thawed  somewhat  on  this  remark. 
Why,  Dorison  could  not  imagine,  and  he  could  not 
take  the  time  to  consider.  She  replied,  however: 

"I  will  enlighten  you  to  the  best  of  my  ability. 
The  day  after  the  murder,  Mr.  Cathcart  came  to 
our  house,  sent  there  by  our  minister,  Mr.  Carman, 
in  an  endeavor  to  discover  something  about  Mrs. 
Farish.  You  see,  mother  is  one  of  the  oldest  mem- 
bers of  our  church  and  has  always  been  very  active 
in  it.  It  was  little,  to  be  sure,  that  she  could  give 
him,  but  when  talking  of  the  reserved  and  lonely 
life  the  two  lived,  I  recollected  having  seen  Anne 
Farish,  on  three  different  occasions,  walking  in 
Union  Square  with  a  young  man  of  dissipated 
appearance,  but  dressed  in  extreme  fashion.  This 
was  noticeable,  for,  upon  each  occasion  she  seemed 


128  THE  MAN  WITH  A    THUMB. 

to  be  in  deep  distress,  and  the  young  man  moody  and 
menacing  in  manner.  Then  again,  it  was  the  only 
instance  ever  known,  when  Anne  Parish  was  seen 
in  company  with  a  young  gentleman." 

Long  before  she  had  concluded,  Dorison  had 
grasped  a  sense  of  the  meaning  of  their  enterprise. 
Probably  it  was  very  stupid  of  him  that  he  had  for- 
gotten this  episode,  which  Cathcart  had  made  a 
strong  connecting  link  in  his  chain  of  reasoning,  but 
now  it  came  back  to  him  with  great  force  and  he 
perceived  the  importance  a  recognition  would 
have. 

By  this  time  they  had  reached  the  corner  of 
Twenty-third  Street  and  Broadway,  and  he  sug- 
gested they  should  cross  into  the  park.  As  they 
did  so  she  concluded  her  statement.' 

"Therefore,  a  certain  Mr.  Langdon,  with  whose 
personal  appearance  you  are  familiar,  has  fallen 
under  Mr.  Cathcart's  suspicions,  and  we  are  bent  on 
an  errand  of  discovery — to  see  whether  this  Mr. 
Langdon  is  the  one  whom  I  saw  walking  with  Anne 
Parish." 

"And  are  we  to  keep  on  walking  until  we  meet 
this  man,"  asked  Dorison  lightly. 

"I  presume  so,"  replied  the  young  lady,  "since 
we  have  fallen  under  the  power  of  this  man  who 
you  say  is  so  inexorable  a  tyrant." 

"The  edelweis  blooms  amid  snow  and  ice,"  replied 
Dorison,  "so  out  of  the  hard  task  he  sets  has  come 
the  charm  of  this  association." 

The  young  lady  did  not  reply  to  this  finely  drawn 


NARROWING  THE  CIRCLE.  129 

and  clumsy  compliment,  but  asked  with  some  anim- 
ation: 

"How  do  you  like  playing  detective,  Mr. 
Dudley?" 

The  question  was  put  so  suddenly,  that  at  first 
Dorison  thought  it  was  a  trap  laid  for  him — that 
she  had  penetrated  the  part  he  was  playing.  Her 
next  remark,  however,  dispelled  the  suspicion.  She 
said: 

"I  enjoy  it,  it  gives  me  an  excitement  I  do  not 
often  have." 

Dorison  did  not  a  second  time  give  expression  to 
the  gallant  remark  that  leaped  to  his  lips;  nor  indeed 
did  he  have  time,  for  the  young  lady  put  another 
question  immediately: 

"Do  you  suppose  Mr.  Cathcart's  suspicions  rest 
upon  this  man  as  the  murderer?" 

"It  is  difficult  to  follow  Mr.  Cathcart's  mind," 
he  answered  soberly.  "He  may  be  the  very  man 
he  has  under  suspicion,  or  to  identify  him  may  be 
only  a  step  in  the  maze  he  is  following.  Few  will 
ever  know  until  the  end,  just  what  his  thoughts  are. 
He  is  very  skillful  and  wonderfully  able.  His 
sagacity,  acuteness,  and  reasoning  powers  are 
marvelous  to  me." 

"If,"  said  Miss  Belknap,  whose  quick  eyes  had 
perceived  Cathcart  in  an  adjoining  path,  "if  he 
imposes  onerous  and  unwelcome  duties  upon  others, 
he  does  not  shrink  from  them  himself.  See!  There 
he  is,  also  attending  a  'ladye  faire.'  ' 

"The  plot  thickens, "   remarked  Dorison.    "Who 


13°  THE  MAN  WITH  A    THUMB. 

can  she  be?  And  what  does  he  propose  to  do  with 
her?  Evidently  she  is  a  servant." 

"He  does  not  appear  to  be  an  attentive  cavalier, 
with  his  chin  upon  his  breast  and  his  hands  in  his 
vest-pockets,"  commented  Miss  Belknap. 

"He  is  profoundly  thinking.  When  he  carries 
his  hands  so,  he  is.  And  he  is  utterly  unconscious 
of  his  habit." 

They  walked  on,  chatting  easily.  As  they  neared 
the  corner  of  Twenty-sixth  Street  and  Madison 
Avenue,  Dorison  saw  the  person  they  had  come  to 
observe  approaching.  He  was  passing  in  front  of 
the  Garden  building. 

"Cathcart  has  timed  our  walk  well,"  he  said, 
"There  comes  our  man  Langdon." 

"Oh,  indeed.     Where?" 

"Immediately  in  front  of  the  Garden  doors." 

"Are  we  to  turn  back?" 

"Better  go  forward  and'pass  him  slowly." 

"Should  we  not  indicate  to  Mr.  Cathcart  that  the 
man  is  coming?" 

"By  no  means.  He  would  not  thank  us  for  that. 
Do  not  fear  he  will  miss  the  man  he  has  routed  us 
out  so  early  to  see." 

By  this  time  they  had  reached  the  crossing  of 
Madison  Avenue  and  Langdon  had  already  stepped 
down  on  it  from  the  other  side.  As  he  approached 
he  fixed  his  eyes  upon  Dorison,  scowling  as  he  did 
so,  thus  enabling  Miss  Belknap  to  take  a  fair  look 
at  him  without  being  observed.  As  soon  as  he  had 
passed  out  of  hearing  she  said : 


NARROWING  THE  CIRCLE.  13 * 

"That  is  the  man.      It  is  he  without  a  question." 

This  with  a  tone  admitting  of  no  doubt. 

"He  recognized  yoii,  and  does  not  regard  you 
with  favor,"  she  added. 

Dorison  told  the  young  lady  his  encounter  with 
him  at  the  time  of  his  rescue  of  Miss  Eustace,  con- 
cluding his  tale  with  these  words: 

"I  presume  no  man  can  philosophically  receive 
such  humiliation  from  a  lady,  before  other  men, 
especially  after  he  has  boasted  of  a  friendship  be- 
tween them." 

They  had  walked  up  Madison  Avenue  as  he 
talked,  but  now  Miss  Belknap  said : 

"Our  task  is  done.     I  must  return  home." 

"I  hope  I  am  not  to  take  your  remark  as  a  dis- 
missal, but  shall  be  permitted  to  accompany  you  to 
your  door?" 

"Thank  you,"  said  the  lady,  thus  giving  her  con- 
sent. Arriving,  they  found  Cathcart  at  the  door 
viewing  with  high  displeasure  their  slow  approach. 

"I  have  been  waiting  for  you  at  least  ten  min- 
utes," he  said  sharply. 

The  young  lady  resented  his  tone  and  replied: 

"That  is  to  be  regretted — by  you." 

But,  impervious  to  the  sarcasm,  Cathcart  said: 

"Well,  is  it  the  man?" 

"Yes." 

"It  was  the  same  man?"     His  face  lighted  up. 

"Unquestionably.  I  would  have  known  him 
among  a  hundred.  He  is  noticeable  enough." 

Cathcart  was  evidently  greatly  pleased. 


I32  THE  MAN  WITH  A    THUMB. 

"Come,"  he  cried,  "we  are  getting  on  famously." 

"Did  you  learn  anything?"  asked  the  young 
lady. 

"Much,"  was  the  answer  in  a  tone  which  did  not 
encourage  further  questioning. 

Before  the  young  lady,  if  she  had  desired,  could 
inquire  further,  Cathcart  said : 

"Now,  Mr.  Dudley,  I  must  see  you.  Come  with 
me." 

Dorison  lingered  only  to  take  polite  leave  of  the 
lady,  and  followed  the  old  detective  down  the  steps. 


CHAPTER  XIII. 

NEW  DISAPPOINTMENTS. 

"  \I  7E  have  a  good  basis  now,"  exclaimed  Cath- 
VV  cart  in  high  glee,  as  they  walked  to  Fourth 
Avenue.  "We  know  the  owner  of  the  glove;  we 
know  the  walker  in  Union  Square;  and  we  know 
the  caller  at  stated  intervals.  At  first  I  supposed 
the  three  to  be  one.  This,  however,  turns  out  not 
to  be  the  case.  But  if  the  owner  of  the  glove  is  one 
man,  the  other  two  prove  to  be  the  same  person. 
The  work  ought  to  go  straight  now.  I  have  some- 
thing to  show  you." 

Taking  from  his  pocket  a  small  package  carefully 
wrapped  in  paper,  he  handed  it  to 'Dorison.  It 
proved  to  be  a  lancet  such  as  surgeons  use,  the  han- 
dle of  which  was  of  tortoise-shell. 

"Examine  that  carefully, "  he  said,  "burn  it  into 
your  memory." 

Dorison  did  as  he  was  bid,  even  carefully  not- 
ing the  marks  cut  into  the  steel. 

"Well,"  he  said  as  he  returned  it 

"That  is  what  killed  the  two  women. 

"What,"  cried  Dorison,  startled  and  surprised. 

"I  have  no  doubt  of  it.  That  girl  who  was  with 
me  in  the  park  was  the  servant  of  Mrs.  Parish  at  the 
time  she  was  killed.  She  gave  me  that  lancet.  She 


134  THE  MAN  WITH  A    THUMB. 

found  it  on  the  parlor  floor  under  the  door .  She 
did  not  find  it  until  after  the  Captain  and  I  had 
concluded  our  search  of  the  house,  and  did  not  pro- 
duce it  at  the  coroner's  inquest  because  no  one 
spoke  of  it.  Lately  her  conscience  has  troubled 
her  about  it,  and  when  I  hunted  her  up,  she  gave 
-it  to  me." 

"What  did  you  hunt  her  up  for?" 

"To  see  whether  she  could  recognize  in  Langdon 
the  caller  at  stated  intervals." 

"Did  she?" 

"Perfectly.  I  did  not  even  have  to  direct  her 
attention  to  him.  As  soon  as  she  saw  him  she  cried 
out,  'That  is  the  man.'  ' 

"Why  do  you  want  me  to  remember  the  lancet?" 

Cathcart  glanced  at  Dorison,  who  thought  he 
detected  a  fleeting  expression  of  surprised  con- 
tempt. 

"Young  Eustace  studied  surgery,  didn't  he?" 

"Yes." 

"Well,  I  want  to  know  if  he  has  a  case  of  instru- 
ments of  which  this  lancet  may  be  one.  Find  out 
if  you  can." 

If  the  old  detective  saw  the  gesture  of  disgust  and 
impatience  Dorison  made,  he  ignored  it. 

"Now,  one  point  more,"  he  continued.  "Get 
Eustace  to  talk  about  Langdon  upon  the  first  oppor- 
tunity you  have.  Find  out  what  he  knows  about 
him.  There  must  be  some  reason  for  his  haughty 
treatment  of  the  fellow.  I  want  to  know  what  it  is. " 

They  had  reached  Broadway  as  they  talked,  and 


tfEW  DISAPPOINTMENTS.  135 

continued  as  far  as  Twenty-third  Street.  On  the 
corner  Cathcart  stopped  to  say : 

"What  may  be  the  outcome  of  the  discoveries  of 
this  morning,  it  is  difficult  to  predict.  Something 
must  come  out  of  them.  We  are  no  longer  groping 
in  the  dark.  Langdon  bore  some  relation  to  the 
Parish  family,  knew  something  about  them,  was  asso- 
ciated, it  is  fair  to  presume,  with  their  troubles. 
What  he  does  know  he  must  reveal." 

"Do  you  mean  to  take  him  in  hand  immediately?" 

"No,  not  until  I  know  more  about  his  surround- 
ings and  antecedents." 

"Have  you  not  already  learned  all  you  are  likely 
to?" 

"I  think  not.  Who  is  he?  He  came  from  Chi- 
cago three  years  -ago.  Notice  this  coincidence. 
Mr.  Carman  says  Mrs.  Parish  sought  him  in  trouble 
and  distress  three  years  ago." 

"Yes,  I  see,"  said  Dorison  eagerly,  "and  Miss 
Belknap  saw  this  man  with  the  daughter  since  that 
time." 

"Precisely,  and  these  stated  calls  only  began  since 
three  years.  There  is  another  coincidence  I  want 
you  to  note.  Eight  years  ago  Mrs.  Parish  suddenly, 
giving  no  reason,  dresses  in  mourning.  Eight  years 
ago  your  father  dies  suddenly.  Now  another  point. 
One  of  the  slips  of  paper  in  your  possession,  writ- 
ten by  your  father,  talks  about  the  misdeeds  of  a 
boy  named  Harold.  This  man  Langdon  is  called 
Harry  by  his  associates.  Do  you  see  where  we  are 
slowly  getting  to?  Now  suppose — " 


136  THE  MAN  WITH  A   THUMB. 

The  old  man  stopped  short.  Dorison,  greatly 
interested,  looked  up  to  see  the  cause.  The  old 
man's  eyes  were  fixed  upon  an  object  some  distance 
off. 

Searching  about  for  that  object,  Dorison  saw  it 
was  a  man  approaching  from  the  park  who  engaged 
the  attention  of  Cathcart. 

In  a  moment  he  recognized  in  the  person  the 
alert,  sharp-eyed  man  who  had  had  the  mysterious 
exchange  with  Langdon,  near  the  corner  of  Twenty- 
ninth  Street  and  Third  Avenue. 

The  person  approached  directly  on  a  line  with 
them.  Cathcart,  stepping  back  into  the  shadow  of 
an  adjoining  door,  bade  Dorison  to  stand  in  front 
and  conceal  him  as  much  as  possible. 

He  did  so,  moving  slightly,  so  that  he  could  keep 
himself  between  the  old  detective  and  the  man 
until  he  had  passed  on,  going  down  Twenty-third 
Street. 

"Do  you  remember  the  story  I  told  you  of  the 
mysterious  exchange  between  Langdon  and  another 
on  Twenty-ninth  Street,"  asked  Dorison,  after  the 
man  had  passed  by. 

"Yes,  and  what  then?"  sharply  asked  Cathcart. 

"That  man  was  the  other  one." 

Cathcart  grasped  Dorison's  arm  with  such  a  grip 
that  the  latter  nearly  cried  out  with  pain. 

"Are  you  sure?     Man,  man,  are  you  sure?" 

"Sure,  yes." 

The  old  man  fairly  dragged  Dorison  after  him  as 
he  hurriedly  followed  the  man,  who  by  this  time  had 


NEW  DISAPPOINTMENTS.  137 

crossed  Fifth  Avenue  and  was  apparently  lost  in 
the  throng. 

Hurrying  along,  they  saw  him  standing  in  front 
of  a  house,  since  transformed,  where  once  another 
celebrated  murder  was  committed. 

His  head  was  bent  to  the  ground,  and  he  appeared 
to  be  debating  with  himself  whether  he  should  go 
on  or  turn  back. 

Cathcart,  dodging  behind  Dorison,  muttered: 

"He  saw  me,  and  is  trying  to  find  out  if  I  am 
following  him." 

Whether  the  old  man  was  right  or  not,  the  man 
continued  on  his  way,  moving  along  at  a  rapid  gait. 

"He  is  going  to  meet  Langdon,"  said  Cathcart. 

"Who  is  this  man!"  asked  Dorison,  as  they 
followed  him. 

"His  name  is  Pittston, ' '  replied  Cathcart.  '  'Some 
four  or  five  years  ago  I  was  on  a  bank  robbery  in 
Chicago.  I  made  up  my  mind  it  had  been  done 
through  connivance  from  the  inside.  Pittston  was 
a  clerk  in  the  bank.  My  suspicions  fell  on  him. 
The  President,  whose  relative  the  clerk  was,  would 
not  have  it,  and  was  indignant  at  the  idea,  for  Pitts- 
ton  lived  with  him.  Persisting  in  my  belief,  I  had 
so  many  obstacles  thrown  in  my  way  that  I  gave  up 
the  job  in  disgust.  They  dismissed  the  clerk  some 
time  after.  He  knew  all  about  it,  for  he  assaulted 
me  afterwards  in  the  Palmer  House,  charging  me 
with  attempting  to  ruin  him.  I  must  locate  him, 
for  I  have  some  facts  that  will  make  him  open  his 
mouth  wide." 


138  THE  MAN  WITH  A  THUMB. 

While  he  rapidly  told  this  to  Dorison,  Sixth 
Avenue  had  been  reached,  and  Pittston  turned  to 
go  up  it. 

Cathcart  stopped  on  the  corner. 

"You  must  do  some  shadow  work  now,"  he  said. 
"I  am  certain  he  is  going  to  that  restaurant  to  meet 
Langdon.  You  must  go  there  and  see  if  he  does 
not  meet  him.  Learn  what  you  can.  I  will  wait 
for  you  at  the  Hoffman  House. " 

Dorison  without  reply  went  at  once  to  the  restau- 
rant designated  as  the  one  daily  visited  by  Langdon. 
Entering,  he  sat  himself  at  a  table  in  the  middle 
of  the  room,  from  which  point  he  thought  he  could 
command  a  view  of  the  room.  It  was  an  eating- 
saloon  of  the  third  or  fourth  class,  though  well  kept 
and  cleanly.  A  waiter  bustled  up  and  received  an 
order  for  a  substantial  breakfast. 

As  he  looked  about,  Dorison  could  see  neither 
Langdon  nor  Pittston,  and  feared  that  he  had  gone 
into  the  wrong  place.  Examination  of  the  room, 
however,  showed  him  an  opening  in  the  side  wall— 
a  passage  way,  making  the  adjoining  room  a  part 
of  the  eating  saloon. 

He  rose  from  his  chair  to  investigate,  and  walk- 
ing down  the  room,  saw  that  the  cashier's  desk  was 
so  placed  as  to  command  both  rooms.  On  this  desk 
was  a  mirror  tilted  forward  so  that  the  cashier  could, 
with  a  slight  turn  of  his  head,  observe  each  of 
the  two  rooms.  Dorison  also  found  that  by  tak- 
ing a  seat  at  a  table  next  the  opening,  he  could  see 
each  occupant  of  the  front  part  of  the  next  room. 


NEW  DISAPPOINTMENTS.  1^9 

He  therefore  changed  to  this  table  and  immedi- 
atley  discovered  the  pair  he  was  in  search  of.  Sitting 
at  a  table  situated  relatively  as  the  one  he  was  seated 
at,  with  only  the  wall  between  the  two,  Langdon 
and  Pittston  were  deeply  engaged  in  conversation. 

Pittston  was  telling  a  tale  which  evidently  gave 
great  annoyance  to  his  companion.  Langdon 
frowned,  and  his  manner  indicated  a  considerable 
degree  of  alarm.  He  listened  intently  until  Pittston 
had  finished,  and  fell  into  a  profound  study,  from 
which  from  time  to  time  he  emerged  to  ask  a  ques- 
tion, when,  being  answered,  he  relapsed  again  into 
thought. 

In  the  meantime  Dorison's  breakfast  was  served 
and  eaten.  He  had  not  heard  a  word  of  the  conver- 
sation of  the  two  he  had  come  to  watch,  nor  did  there 
seem  to  be  any  likelihood  that  he  would  be  able  to 
hear  any  of  it.  He  had,  however,  established  two 
facts.  Pittston  had  sought  Langdon  as  Cathcart 
had  foreseen,  and  confidential  relations  existed 
between  them.  Believing  he  could  do  no  more, 
"he  was  about  to  depart,  when  the  street  door  of 
the  room  he  was  in  opened  and  the  officer  the  old 
detective  used  as  a  shadow,  entered. 

Dorison  beckoned  to  him. 

"Do  you  want  to  see  me,"  he  asked,  as  the  officer 
came  to  him. 

"The  old  man  wants  me  to  follow  and  report  a 
man  he  thinks  is  here  with  Langdon,"  was  the 
whispered  reply. 

Dorison  pointed  to  the  mirror. 


14°  THE  MAN  IVITIT  A    Til U Ml*. 

"Is  that  the  man?"   asked  the  officer. 

"Yes — the  one  talking  to  Langdon.  Now  get 
away  so  they  will  not  see  you  talking  to  me." 

The  officer  was  not  a  moment  too  soon  in  leaving, 
for  the  pair  in  the  other  room  rose  from  their  table 
and  went  to  the  cashier's  desk. 

Turning  indifferently  as  he  leaned  on  the  desk, 
Langdon  saw  Dorison  and  started  with  surprise, 
scowling  at  him  meanwhile.  Dorison  maintained 
his  composure,  conducting  himself  as  if  he  did  not 
recognize  him  as  the  man  he  had  met  that  morn- 
ing.. 

Calling  the  waiter,  Dorison  gave  him  something 
more  than  the  amount  of  his  check,  and  without 
waiting  for  the  change,  donned 'his  top-coat  and 
went  out,  conscious  that  Langdon  had  directed  the 
attention  of  his  companion  to  him,  Dorison. 

As  the  door  closed  on  Dorison,  Pittston  said: 

"Hanged  if  I  don't  think  that  very  man  stood 
close  to  the  one  I  was  telling  you  of." 

"Who,  Cathcart?" 

"Yes." 

"Then  you  were  followed." 

"Nonsense!  He  was  not  talking  to  Cathcart, 
only  standing  near  him.  I  tell  you  I  was  not  fol- 
lowed; I  stopped  to  see." 

"What  else  but  to  follow  you  brought  such  a  swell 
as  that  here — a  man  who  either  breakfasts  at  'Dcl's' 
or  the  Hoffman  every  morning." 

This  had  been  said  within  the  hearing  of  the 
cashier,  who  asked : 


NEW  DISAPP01XTMF.XTS.  14! 

"Talking  about  the  man  who  has  just  gone  out, 
Harry?" 

"Yes." 

"He  changed  his  seat,"  said  the  cashier,  "from 
the  middle  of  the  room,  and  seemed  to  be  watching 
you  by  that  mirror." 

"The  devil!"  cried  Pittston.  "Could  he  do 
that?" 

"Try  it!"   laughed  the  cashier. 

The  two  quickly  satisfied  themselves  that,  sitting 
where  Dorison  did,  watching  them  at  their  table  was 
an  easy  matter. 

"A  curious  thing  occurred,"  continued  the 
cashier,  when  they  returned  to  his  desk.  "A  man 
came  in  whom  your  man  recognized  right  away,  and 
beckoned  to  him.  They  whispered,  together,  and 
then  your  man  pointed  to  the  mirror.  The  other 
man  went  out  right  away." 

"By — "  cried  Langdon,  with  an  oath,  ''you  were 
followed." 

"I  am  afraid  so,"  replied  Pittston  gloomily. 

The  two  walked  to  the  street  door,  where  Lang- 
don halted  to  say: 

"There  are  two  things  to  do.  You  must  walk  as 
straight  as  a  die  and  do  no  business,  go  nowhere 
you  are  afraid  any  one  should  see  you,  and  keep 
away  from  me.  That's  the  first  thing.  Next,  when 
you  go  from  here,  I  will  watch  to  see  if  you  are  fol- 
lowed by  anybody.  I  suspect  that  to  be  the  game. 
If  you  are  I  will  let  you  know.  Not  hearing  from 
me  means  you  were  not  followed." 


142  TffE  MAN'  WITH  A   THUMB. 

"Who  is  this  fellow  anyhow,"  asked  Pittston. 

"I  don't  know,  except  that  his  name  is  Dudley. 
He's  a  howling  swell  and  goes  with  the  best. 
The  first  time  I  saw  him  he  saved  a  young  lady  of 
my  acquaintance  from  being  run  over.  She  didn't 
know  him  then,  but  now  he's  as  thick  as  peas  with 
her  brother,  and  he  goes  to  the  house  often.  This 
very  morning  I  met  him  in  Madison  Square  walk- 
ing with  a  stunning-looking  girl.  I  hate  him  and 
would  like  to  dose  him,  especially  since  I  find  him 
•interfering  in  my  affairs." 

"Mine,  I  should  say,"  said  Pittston  with  a  laugh. 

"No,  mine,"  persisted  Langdon. 

"I  don't  see  it.  If  he  followed  any  one  he  fol- 
lowed me." 

"That  may  be,"  said  Landgon  impatiently. 
"But  it  all  comes  back  on  me.  I  have  good  reason 
for  saying  so,  since  I  know  he  is  such  a  great  friend 
of  young  Eustace.  That  is  what  makes  me  so 
uneasy — this  following  of  you." 

"I  don't  see  the  connection." 

"See  here.  Cathcart  can't  be  following  you  for 
the  Chicago  affair,  can  he?  That  affair  is  closed 
up,  and  you  have  told  me  you  were  protected  in  it 
by  your  uncle  for  the  sake  of  the  family." 

"Yes;  that's  so." 

"Well,  if  you  were  not  followed  for  that,  you 
were  for  something,  weren't  you?" 

"Yes,  there  was  some  reason  of  course." 

"Now,  here  it  is.  They're  after  me,  and  because 
they  followed  you  I  am  afraid  they  have  gpt  onto 


NEW  DISAPPOINTMENTS.  143 

the  business  we  have  together,  and  want  to  strike 
at  me  through  that.  Do  you  tumble  now?" 

"  I  see.  It  is  serious."  Pittston  was  thoughtful. 
"  Drop  the  whole  business  for  a  while." 

"  By ,"  cried  Langdon  with  another  oath. 

"  Its  dropped  for  us.  My  man  is  kicking,  and 
refuses  to  go  any  further  in  it.  I  was  going  to  put 
the  screws  on  him  to  find  out  what  is  the  meaning 
of  his  sudden  independence.  But  this  thing  comes 
up  and  it  won't  do.  I  don't  know  but  what  he's 
been  giving  the  snap  away." 

"  I  thought  you  had  him  so  tight  that  he  had  to 
do  what  you  told  him  ?  " 

"  So  would  any  one  think  who  knew  what  I  have 
got  on  him,"  replied  Langdon,  angrily.  "  But  now 
he  is  doing  the  high  and  mighty,  and  swears 
if  I  push  him  any  further  he'll  kick  the  whole 
bucket  over  and  land  me  in  jail  for  life,  even  if  it 
ruins  him.  He  says  he'd  rather  die  than  be  the 
slave  he  has  been  to  me  for  the  last  three  years." 

"  But  can  he  ? "  asked  Pittston. 

"  He  can,  if  he  knows  something  I  did  some 
years  ago.  But,  by  Heaven!  I'm  certain  he  don't — 
he  can't.  The  people  who  knew  about  it  are  all 
dead.  I'm  playing  him  to  know  what  card  he's  got 
up  his  sleeve.  While  I'm  playing  him  we  must 
drop  the  business.  Give  the  word  that  way." 

They  went  into  the  street,  Langdon  remaining  at 
the  door.  Pittston  first  walked  to  the  corner  of 
Twenty-third  Street,  and  turning  came  back  and 
went  in  the  direction  of  Twenty-fourth  Street, 


144  THE  MAN  WITH  A   THUMB. 

As  he  disappeared,  Langdon  muttered  : 

"  The  chase  ended  when  they  ran  him  down  to 
me.  He  is  not  followed." 

At  that  very  moment  the  officer  was  close  on  the 
heels  of  Pittston  as  he  walked  up  Twenty-fourth 
Street  to  Broadway. 

Dorison  had  gone  to  the  Hoffman  House,  where 
he  met  Cathcart,  to  whom  he  related  what  had 
occurred. 

"  I  am  more  than  satisfied  that  Pittston  recog- 
nized me,"  said  Cathcart.  "  But  that  is  a  matter 
easily  overcome.  If  he  recognized  me,  he  saw  you. 
Thai  is  not  so  easily  overcome.  Hereafter  we  must 
not  meet  openly.  We  are  getting  to  the  end 
pretty  fast. 

"  I  hope  so,"  rejoined  Dorison  doubtfully,  "  but 
I  frankly  confess  the  end  seems  as  far  off  as  ever 
it  did." 

"  Possibly  it  does  to  you.  Nevertheless  the  lines 
are  coming  together  with  tolerable  rapidity.  One 
day,  when  you  least  expect  it,  I  will  call  upon  you 
to  witness  the  falling  of  the  blow." 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

LOWERING  SKIES. 

events  of  the  morning  gave  Dorison  food 
JL  for  thought.  After  Cathcart  had  departed  he 
dawdled  about  the  hotel  as  he  endeavored  to  extract 
some  intelligence  from  these  events,  serving  to  jus- 
tify the  confidence  displayed  by  the  old  detective 
that  the  end  was  in  sight. 

He  reviewed  his  life  during  the  six  weeks  elaps- 
ing since  his  return  to  the  city  of  his  birth,  and 
carefully  went  over  the  events  connected  with  the 
search  with  which  he  was  identified.  The  result 
was  not  satisfactory.  Everything  was  fragmentary. 
There  was  a  bit  here  and  a  bit  there  which,  con- 
sidered by  themselves,  seemed  important  and  signifi- 
cant, but  when  he  attempted  to  put  them  together 
they  appeared  disconnected  and  inconsistent,  even 
contradictory. 

"Whether  this  is  due,"  he  said  aloud,  as  he  sat 
and  pondered,  "to  the  miserly  and  fragmentary 
manner  in  which  Cathcart  deals  out  his  information, 
or,  whether  it  is  the  exact  condition  of  the  case,  I 
am  utterly  at  a  loss  to  determine.  I  know,  however, 
it  is  utterly  unsatisfactory,  and  unless  something 
more  positive  turns  up  within  the  next  fortnight  I 
will  throw  up  my  commission.  So  far  as  I  am  able 
145 


1 46  THE  MAN  WITH  A    THUMB. 

to  see  not  one  step  has  been  made,  nor  one  single 
fact  gathered  that  brings  us  nearer  to  the  end,  the 
accomplishment  of  which  is  the  only  justification 
for  my  being  involved  in  it  at  all." 

He  got  up  and.  walked  into  the  street.  As  he 
went  up  Broadway  he  said : 

"What  I  will  do,  will  be  to  see  Mr.  Nettleman 
and  have  a  talk  with  him.  That  much  is  due  him 
and  I  have  not  seen  him  for  two  weeks.  I'll  do  it 
this  very  afternoon.  The  life  I  am  leading  is  un- 
bearable. " 

He  did  not  go  that  afternoon,  however,  for  on 
reaching  his  rooms  he  found  his  friend  Eustace  in 
possession. 

"I  have  been  waiting  so  long  for  you,"  he  cried, 
"that  I  have  come  to  believe  these  apartments  are 
mine.  Do  you  know,  I  like  them  better  than  my 
own." 

"Then  perhaps  you  may  obtain  them,"  said  Dori- 
son. 

"Why?     What  does  that  mean?" 

"It  means,  Eustace,  that  you  see  a  disgusted  and 
contemptible  creature  before  you.  I  am  half  per- 
suaded to  cut  this  life  and  go  back  to  Dubuque." 

"Something  has  gone  wrong,  ma  chtre.  The 
blues,  eh?  I  have  them  sometimes  myself." 

"My  trouble  is  far  greater  than  the  blues,"  said 
Dorison,  throwing  himself  at  full  length  upon  the 
lounge,  and  looked  at  Eustace  fixedly  for  some  time. 

"I  wonder,  Charley,"  he  said  at  length,  "if  there 
will  be  a  time  when  you  will  regard  me  with  bitter- 


LOWERING  SKIES.  147 

ness  and  contempt — when  you  will  never  be  able  to 
think  of  me  without  loathing  and  horror." 

"What  condition  of  mind  are  you  in  to-day?" 
"The  confessional,  although  I  shall  make  no  con- 
fession. Perhaps  all  these  dark  and  gloomy  vapors 
will  pass  away  and  the  bright  sunbeams  play  over 
us  both.  Whether  any  sunlight,  however,  will  ever 
irradiate  my  life  again,  I  greatly  doubt.  Charley 
my  boy,  I  am  a  monomaniac.  I  have  but  one  pur- 
pose in  life  and  to  that  I  am  bending  everything, 
sacrificing  everything- -home,  comfort,  honor  and 
friends.  Beware  of  me!  I  am  not  what  I  seem  on 
the  surface.  During  my  life  I  have  never  met  any- 
one of  either  sex  to  whom  I  have  been  so  much 
attracted  as  I  have  been  to  you — no  one  of  whom  I 
have  been  so  fond.  Yet,  my  boy,  heed  me.  If 
you  should  run  counter  to  this  life  purpose  of  mine, 
so  completely  have  I  become  its  slave,  I  believe  I 
would  sacrifice  you.  I  say  again,  beware  of  me. 
Hold  me  off  at  arm's  length.  Do  not  give  me  a 
single  advantage.  God  knows  that  when  I  am  in 
the  mood  I  am  now,  I  pray  fervently  that  the  friend- 
ship we  have  formed  within  the  past  few  weeks  may 
ripen  with  our  days,  strengthen  with  our  years,  and 
be  still  hale  when  our  heads  are  gray.  But  I  tell 
you,  old  man,"  and  he  rose  from  the  lounge  in  his 
earnestness,  "the  day  is  coming  when  that  friend- 
ship will  be  put  to  as  severe  a  test  as  friendship  ever 
was." 

Eustace,  who  had  regarded   Dorison  seriously, 
said: 


148  THE  MAN  WITH  A    THUMB. 

"I  think  you  are  in  a  frame  of  mind  which  either 
is  the  result  of  a  serious  physical  derangement,  or 
great  mental  tribulation.  If  it  is  the  latter,  and  I 
apprehend  it  is,  I  advise  you  to  take  immediate 
steps  toward  remedy.  And  in  such  cases,  I  take 
it,  the  best  remedy  is  to  pour  out  your  confidences 
to  some  friend  you  can  trust." 

"There  are  some  things  that  must  be  borne 
alone, "  replied  Dorison  with  a  sigh.  '  'Mine  is  one. 
For  eight  years  I  have  borne  them — " 

"And  alone,  nursing  them,"  interrupted  Eus- 
tace. "That  is  just  it." 

"Borne,  they  must  be,  alone  to  the  end,"  replied 
Dorison.  "Did  you  ever  have  a  serious  secret 
influencing  your  life  and  nature,  which  you  would 
not  reveal  lest  it  brought  you  the  contempt  and  hor- 
ror of  your  friends  — those  you  thought  the  most  of?' ' 

Eustace's  face  flushed  red. 

"Yes,"  he  replied,  falteringly,  "which,  if  I 
thought  it  would  become  public  I  would  kill  myself 
from  shame  and  disgrace." 

Dorison  heard  these  words  with  his  heart  bound- 
ing against  his  ribs. 

"Is  this  tantamount  to  a  confession?"  he  asked 
himself. 

Shaken  and  agitated,  he  walked  to  the  window 
and  looked  out.  Then,  turning  impulsively  to  Eus- 
tace, he  cried  out : 

"Away  with  these  thougths!  I'll  have  none  of 
them.  What  brought  you  here  to  put  me  into  this 
condition?" 


LOWERING  SKIES.  149 

"I  did  not  come  here  to  put  you  into  any  condi- 
tion, nor  did  I,  for  you  were  in  your  present  mood 
when  you  entered.  What  I  did  come  here  for  was 
to  ask  you  what  occurred  between  you  and  the  pater 
last  evening,"  replied  Eustace. 

"I  think  your  father's  treatment  Jast  night  has 
something  to  do  with  my  present  frame  of  mind. 
You  see,"  he  laughed  bitterly.  "I  am  bound  to 
put  it  on  some  one  of  your  family.  To  answer 
your  question, — I  don't  know.  Your  father  was 
agreeable  and  pleasant  to  me  as  one  could  wish  dur- 
ing the  early  part  of  the  dinner.  He  has  discovered 
in  me  some  strong  resemblance  to  an  old  friend,  and 
attempted  to  supply  me  with  a  new  set  of  relatives. 
The  attempt  involved  an  inquiry  into  my  family 
relations.  I  am  not  always  a  master  of  my  own 
moods,  and  I  took  the  caprice  to  object  to  talking 
about  them  before  strangers.  Probably  I  was  not 
as  sensible  of  the  honor  done  me  by  a  gentleman 
of  the  distinction  of  your  father,  in  manifesting  an 
interest  in  my  surroundings,  as  I  should  have  been, 
and  gave  offense  by  my  evasion  of  the  inquiry.  If 
it  be  not  that,  I  know  not  what  it  is.  At  all  events 
he  froze  to  me." 

"  Yes,  I  noticed  he  did,"  replied  Eustace. 
"  However,  if  that  is  all,  the  matter  will  be  soon 
righted.  Now  my  next  reason  for  calling.  I  am 
thinking  of  giving  a  small  theater  party  next  Mon- 
day night,  with  a  snack  afterwards  at  Del's.  Will 
you  be  one  ?  " 

"  With  pleasure." 


15°  THE  MAN  WITH  A    THUMB. 

"  Will  you  escort  my  sister — Evelyn,  you  know  ? " 

"  I  am  honored." 

"  And  not  frighten  her  with  a  gloomy  outburst 
and  warn  her  to  beware  of  you  ?  " 

Dorison  blushed  and  smiled. 

"  I  will  epdeavor  to  justify  her  brother's  con- 
fidence." 

For  a  little  time  there  was  silence  between  them, 
when  Dorison  suddenly  said  : 

"  Eustace,  the  first  night  I  ever  saw  you,  a  man 
named  Langdon  approached  you.  You  treated  him 
with  considerable  hauteur.  Who  is  the  fellow  ? " 

The  young  man  turned  a  sharp,  inquiring  look 
upon  Dorison ;  his  face  flushed,  and  a  vexed 
expression  came  into  his  eyes. 

"  Why  do  you  ask  ?  He  cannot  be  a  friend  of 
yours  ?  " 

"  No,  not  even  an  acquaintance,  but  I  have  rea- 
son for  knowing  more  about  him  than  I  do." 

"  The  fellow  was  somewhat  offensive  to  my  sister 
Evelyn,  the  day  you  saved  her  from  being  run  over, 
I  think." 

"  It  did  not  appear  to  me  that  Miss  Eustace 
relished  his  assumption  of  friendship." 

"  I  should  think  not,"  replied  Eustace,  indig- 
nantly. He  looked  out  of  the  window  for  a  few 
moments,  Dorison  waiting  for  him  to  continue. 
After  a  while  he  said  : 

"  I  don't  know  much  about  the  fellow,  Dudley. 
To  begin  at  the  beginning,  this  is  all  I  know. 
Something  more  than  a  year  ago  my  younger  sister, 


LOWERING  SKIES.  15 T 

then  about  fifteen,  was  taken  seriously  ill  and  our 
regular  family  physician  was  unable  to  do  anything 
for  her,  a  fact  he  acknowledged  himself,  and  sug- 
gested the  calling  in  of  other  physicians.  That 
was  done,  but  she  continued  to  decline,  and  both 
mother  and  father  were  nearly  frantic.  When  she 
was  at  her  worst,  and  when  the  physicians  were 
despairing,  some  one  called  father's  attention  to  a 
young  physician  named  Fassett,  who  was  making 
marvelous  cures.  Our  own  physicians,  having 
admitted  their  inability  to  cope  with  the  strange 
difficulty,  could  not  object  to  his  being  called.  He 
was,  and  declared  the  difficulty  to  be  principally  a 
nervous  one,  and  began  a  treatment  diametrically 
opposed  to  that  she  had  been  under.  Notwith- 
standing the  protests  of  her  other  physicians 
against  the  treatment,  she  improved  steadily.  In 
the  course  of  a  few  months  she  was  completely 
restored  to  health.  Of  course  you  can  understand 
that  under  the  circumstances  our  people  were 
grateful  to  Dr.  Fassett,  and  though  father  said 
that  from  the  first  he  appreciated  that  Dr.  Fassett 
was  far  from  being  a  gentleman,  he  was  loaded 
with  attention  ty  our  people  ;  he  had  saved  the  pet 
of  the  household  when  she  was  given  up  to  die. 
Then  mother  fell  sick  and  Evelyn,  and  they  were 
both  brought  triumphantly  through  by  Dr.  Fassett, 
who  is  undeniably  a  skillful  physician,  but  as  well 
a  course,  vulgar  man.  No  one  can  get  upon  more 
familiar  terms  with  a  family  than  its  physician, 
and  one  day,  without  asking  consent  or  permission, 


152  THE  MAN  WITH  A    THUMB. 

he  introduced  into  the  family  this  fellow  Langdon — 
an  insufferable  cad,  vulgar,  ill-bred,  dissipated  and 
coarse.  Without  request  the  fellow  began  to  call, 
until  finally  orders  were  given  the  servantis  to  say 
no  one  was  at  home  when  he  called.  Father  tells 
me  he  had  quite  a  scene  with  Dr.  Fassett  over  this, 
and  was  obliged  to  tell  him  that  his  position  as 
medical  adviser  to  the  family  put  him,  father,  under 
no  social  obligations,  and  that  if,  in  addition  to  the 
fees  he  exacted,  he  demanded  social  recognition  for 
all  of  his  friends,  much  as  it  was  to  be  regretted, 
the  relations  between  them  must  cease." 

"  But  that  did  not  end  the  persecutions.  Lang- 
don seemed  to  have  secret  sources  of  informa- 
tion, and  turned  up  at  the  theaters  and  other  public 
places  where  our  folks  went,  and  forced  himself 
upon  them  ;  more  than  that,  waylaid  my  sisters  on 
the  street.  This  was  going  on  when  I  returned 
from  Europe  and  was  told  of  it.  So,  the  first  time 
it  occurred  when  I  was  near,  I  took  Langdon  aside 
and  forbade  him  to  speak  to  my  sisters  or  mother 
again,  promising  him  a  jolly  good  thrashing  if  he 
ever  presumed  to  do  so.  Hang  the  cad,  if  he  had 
shown  fight  then,  or  had  not  subsequently 
attempted  to  ingratiate  himself  with  me,  I  would 
have  had  some  respect  for  him." 

Eustace  hesitated,  as  if  he  had  something  more 
to  say,  and  Dorison  waited  for  him  to  continue. 

"  Hang  it  all,  Dudley,  I  think  I'll  tell  you  the 
whole  story.  I  could  not  to  one  I  regarded  less  as 
a  friend  than  I  do  you.  The  annoying  thing  about 


LOWERING  SKIES.  153 

it  all  is  yet  to  come,  and  is  to  a  certain  degree 
humiliating.  The  only  excuse  lies  in  the  extreme 
youth  of  my  sister  Dorothy,  who  is  but  sixteen 
now.  Of  course  she  was  grateful  to  Dr.  Fassett, 
and  he  has  naturally  obtained  a  considerable  influ- 
ence over  her.  She  began  first  with  taking  up  his 
quarrel  against  the  family  and  espousing  the  cause 
of  this  fellow  Langdon.  I  am  quite  certain  that 
Fassett  has  been  endeavoring  to  make  interest  with 
Dorothy  for  Langdon.  At  all  events,  I  found  out 
that  Langdon  was  managing  to  see  her  alone,  and 
she — foolish  and  romantic  creature — began  to  be 
interested  in  him.  He  was  bent  on  mischief. 
His  desire  was,  of  course,  to  win  and  marry  her, 
and  force  himself  on  the  family.  This  is  our 
secret,  and  the  proof  of  my  friendship  for  you  is 
that  I  give  it  to  you." 

"  Thank  you,"  said  Dorison  simply. 

"  We  have  taken  steps  to  prevent  this  thing. 
Hard  as  it  is,  we  have  had  to  keep  a  strict  surveil- 
lance upon  Dorothy  for  some  time  now,  and  in  the 
spring  the  family  will  go  to  Europe  to  escape  the 
fellow.  But  this  is  not  my  way  of  dealing  with 
him  or  with  Fassett.  The  latter  I  would  deny  the 
house,  and  the  former  I  would  deal  with  vigorously, 
but  everything  is  bended  to  prevent  a  scandal. 
Who  the  fellow  is,  or  what  he  is,  I  don't  know.  He 
has  a  wonderful  influence  over  Fassett,  and,  in  my 
judgment,  it  is  not  through  superior  intellect  or 
force  of  character,  for  he  is  in  both  deficient,  but 
through  the  possession  of  some  secret  in  Fassett's 


»54  THE  MAX   //77'//  ../    THUMB. 

life.  Of  course  that  is  mere  supposition,  and  I 
base  it  wholly  on  the  manner  in  which  he  treats 
Fassett  and  the  latter's  subserviency,  so  foreign  to 
his  nature.  Fassett  says  he  has  known  him  for 
years,  and  that  he  was  a  fellow  student  of  his  at  a 
western  medical  college,  where  he  failed  to  take 
his  degree  by  withdrawing  just  before  the  close  of 
his  term.  I've  told  you  all  I  know  about  the  fel- 
low, except  that  his  associates  here  in  town  seem 
to  be  thoroughly  disreputable." 

"I  have  no  knowledge  of  him,"  said  Dorison, 
"except  that  he  touches  an  affair  in  which  I  have 
some  interest,  and  was  therefore  desirous  of  knowing 
more — an  affair,  let  me  say,  lest  I  be  charged  with 
not  giving  confidence  for  confidence,  which  really 
belongs  to  another  person  and  of  which  I  have  no 
right  to  speak  without  his  permission.  By  the  way, 
did  not  Bushnell  tell  me  that  you  were  a  medical 
student?" 

"Student,"  repeated  Eustace,  in  mock  indigna- 
tion, "Behold  an  M.D.  Dr.  Eustace,  at  your  serv- 
ice— I  have  my  degree.  Yes  I  am  an  Esculapian. 
I  devoted  myself  to  the  surgical  branch,  but  I  have 
never  practiced.  Long  before  I  attained  my  degree 
I  abandoned  all  idea  of  it.  1  threw  my  parchment 
aside  with  my  books — never  assumed  my  title. 
Why,  I  never  bought  an  instrument,  never  even 
owned  one." 

He  had  answered  the  very  question  Dorison  was 
leading  up  to,  before  it  was  asked. 

Shortly   after   he   went  away,    and  Dorison,  re- 


LOWERING  SKIES.  ^55 

clining  in  his  easy  arm-chair,  said,  talking  to  him- 
self: 

"Cathcart's  theory  was  that  these  murders  were 
committed  by  a  tall,  slim  man  with  brown  hair,  whose 
hands  were  large,  knuckles  and  joints  prominent 
and  thumb  disproportionately  long  and  large,  who 
was  a  dandy  in  dress  and  who  possessed  a  certain 
degree  of  surgical  skill.  He  suspects  Charley  Eus- 
tace and  Harry  Langdon.  The  latter  is  tall,  slim, 
with  brown  hair,  small  and  well-shaped  hand,  a 
dandy,  a  caddish  dandy  in  dress,  and  has  a  certain 
degree  of  surgical  skill;  the  former  is  short,  stout, 
and  light  haired;  has  large  hands,  prominent  joints 
and  knuckles,  a  disproportionately  large  thumb,  is 
a  dandy, -a  gentlemanlike  dandy  in  dress,  and  has 
a  certain  degree  of  surgical  skill,  though  he  never 
owned  a  surgical  instrument.  Bah!  Take  your 
choice.  Detective  skill  is  a  humbug.  Cathcart  is 
a  fraud,  and  you,  Dorison,  are  a  fool  for  submitting 
longer  to  his  tomfoolery.  Chase  it  as  long  as  you 
will,  the  rehabilitation  of  your  name  is  the  ignis 
fatuus  of  your  life.  And  poor,  fluttering  fool  that 
you  are,  you  will  continue  to  pursue  it  until  death 
gives  you  the  only  relief  you  will  ever  have." 

He  picked  up  a  book  and  fell  asleep  over  it. 


CHAPTER  XV. 

CRUSHING    A    REBELLION. 

IN  no  better  frame  of  mind,  Dorison  awoke.  Yet 
he  remembered  the  old  detective's  instructions 
to  report  as  soon  as  he  had  anything  to  tell.  So  he 
set  out,  and  in  time  found  Cathcart  in  his  rooms  in 
Bond  Street,  busy  with  papers  he  pushed  aside  to 
listen  to  his  visitor. 

When  the  tale  was  finished,  the  old  man  made 
no  comment,  but  paced  up  and  down  his  room  with 
his  hands  in  his  vest-pockets,  the  young  man  in  the 
meantime  sitting  by  with  clouded  brow,  twirling  his 
hat  in  his  hands,  leaning  his  elbows  on  his  knees. 
Finally,  straightening  up,  he  said: 

"Don't  you  think  tomfoolery  ought  to  end  and 
real  work  begin?" 

Had  the  old  detective  been  struck  in  the  face 
unexpectedly,  he  could  not  have  given  a  greater 
start. 

"What  do  you  mean?"  he  demanded  savagely. 

"I  mean  I  am  tired  of  this  humbug  and  mystery. 
More  than  two  months  ago  we  began  a  search  with 
two  objects  in  view.  One,  to  discover  the  murderer 
of  Mrs.  Farish  and.  her  daughter,  the  other  to  dis- 
cover the  mystery  of  my  father's  unfinished  letter. 
You  readily  enough  builded  a  theory,  and  it  amounts 
to  practically  nothing.  You  set  out  upon  the  idea 

156 


CRUS1IIXG  A  REBELLION.  157 

that  a  tall,  slim  dandy  with  brown  hair  and  a  peculiar 
hand  and  thumb,  who  possessed  surgical  skill,  was 
the  murderer.  Search  has  determined  two  men  who 
divided  these  characteristics  between  them.  One 
is  a  tall,  slim  dandy  with  brown  hair,  who  has  surgi- 
cal skill  with  small  well-shaped  hands.  The  other 
has  the  peculiarity  of  hands  and  thumbs  but  is  a 
short,  stout,  fair  dandy,  with  surgical  skill." 

"Well?"   said  Cathcart  sternly. 

"I  am  tired  of  balancing  one  against  the  other; 
I  am  tired  of  this  mystery;  I  am  tired  of  the  way 
you  keep  me  in  the  dark,  doling  meagre  glimpses  of 
the  case.  So  far  as  I  am  able  to  see,  not  a  fact  has 
been  gained,  not  a  step  has  been  made  toward  the 
end  I  have  in  view  and  which  is  the  only  justifica- 
tion for  my  being  in  the  case.  I  have  become  a 
mere  puppet  in  your  hands  and  am  living  a  life  of 
hypocrisy  and  falsehood,  the  very  reverse  of  every- 
thing honorable,  without  results,  except  to  an  end  in 
which  I  have  no  special  or  personal  interest." 

"I  believe  you  take  my  money  for  the  work  you 
do.  Have  I  complained?"  sarcastically  observed 
Cathcart. 

"To  earn  the  money  I  receive  is  not  the  object 
of  my  putting  myself  subject  to  your  orders.  All 
I  do  receive  is  expended  in  this  business  as  you 
direct.  The  chief,  and  I  may  say  the  only,  pay  I 
look  to  is  the  explanation  of  my  father's  letter. 
But  for  that  I  would  be  out  of  this  business  in  a 
moment.  The  employment  is  foreign  to  my  habits, 
my  nature,  and  my  tastes." 


15  TJJL   MA. V    WITH  A    THUMB. 

Cathcart  looked  darkly  at  Dorison  for  a  long  time 
while  busy  with  his  thoughts. 

"I  have  been  considered  for  many  years  a  master 
of  my  art,"  he  said  at  length.  "It  is  a  very  long 
time  since  I  permitted  any  one,  either  to  complain 
or  to  criticise,  as  you  have  done.  The  reason  why 
I  have  done  so  in  your  case  must  chiefly  be  because 
I  have  taken  a  genuine  liking  to  you,  and  because 
I  have  had  a  real  sympathy  for  your  extraordinary 
case.  If  I  don't  throw  you  over  now  and  devote 
myself  wholly  to  the  murder  case,  it  must  be  because 
I  see  that  you  are  morbid  over  your  own  wrongs  and 
have  a  better  excuse  for  impatience  and  despon- 
dency than  most  men  who  have  attempted  to 
complain  and  criticise  to  me.  My  own  personal 
concern  in  this  matter  is  wholly  a  matter  of  pride. 
I  desire  to  round  off  a  career  of  prominence  and 
distinction  in  the  West,  with  a  triumph  in  the  East. 
This  is  probably  the  last  inquiry  I  shall  ever  be 
engaged  in,  and  I  desire  to  win  the  glory  of  succeed- 
ing where  the  Eastern  detectives  have  failed. 

"Now,  so  much  by  way  of  preface.  My  own 
belief  is  that  I  could  have  yesterday  brought  the 
murder  question  to  an  issue,  were  it  not  for  the  fact 
that  your  own  matter  was  not  advanced  to  a  stage 
I  desired.  I  believe  the  germs  of  that  unfinished 
letter  and  the  murders  are  to  be  found  in  the  one 
condition  of  affairs. 

"Listen  to  me  and  be  ashamed.  I  have  done 
little  in  the  murder  case  but  direct  your  move- 
ments. You  have  put  into  my  hands  the  material 


CRUSHING  A  REBELLION.  159 

by  which  I  am  certain  that  within  the  next  twenty- 
four  hours  I  could  put  into  custody  the  murderer, 
were  I  to  devote  myself  to  the  effort.  For  the  past 
two  months  I  have  labored  hard,  as  hard  as  I  ever 
did  in  any  two  months  of  my  life,  and — "  he 
paused  to  give  the  effect  to  his  words,  "nine-tenths 
of  that  time  has  been  devoted  to  your  affair.  You 
think  no  fact  has  been  gained.  I  know  more  at  this 
moment  of  your  father's  life  and  business  than  you 
ever  did.  I  have  made  the  friendship  of  your 
father's  executor.  I  have  won  him  as  your  friend, 
instead  of  your  enemy,  as  he  has  been  for  eight  years. 
I  have  persuaded  him  to  go  to  work  with  a  belief  in 
your  innocence.  He  is  a  conscientious  man  and  is 
enthusiastic  in  his  effort  to  repair  .the  wrong  he  has 
done  you.  I  have  examined  the  old  books  of 
the  firm  of  which  your  father  was  so  long  the  head, 
and  have  run  down  every  item  of  personal  expendi- 
ture I  suspected  might  possibly  have  a  bearing  on 
your  affair.  I  have  turned  over  every  scrap  of 
paper  in  the  possession  of  your  father's  executor,  and 
I  have  conversed  with  nearly  every  man  yet  alive 
with  whom  your  father  did  business.  I  have  found, 
and  to  a  great  extent  know,  the  cause  of  the  dissipa- 
tion of  your  father's  great  property.  The  work  is 
not  completed.  When  you  came  in,  I  was  examining 
reports  the  mail  brought  me,  which  advance  me 
another  long  step  on  the  way.  And  this  moment  I 
can  account  for  nearly  every  cent,  except  one  block 
of  one  hundred  and  fifty  thousand  dollars.  This 
money  was  not  lost  in  speculations  or  bad  invest- 


160  THE  MAN   WITH  A    THUMB. 

ments.  It  was  actually  spent,  deliberately  expended 
in  pursuance  of  a  deliberate  intention,  after  having 
been  raised  by  hypothecation  of  stock  and  securities. 
What  was  that  purpose  or  intention?  And  why  so 
deliberately  and  persistently  pursued?  I  have  only 
within  the  hour  gotten  to  a  point  where  I  could 
pursue  that  part  of  the  inquiry  with  any  degree  of 
intelligent  effort  or  with  hopes  of  success. 

"I  hold  that  one  reason  of  the  great  success  I 
have  had  in  my  business,  has  been  largely  due  to 
two  qualities  I  have  possessed.  First,  the  ability 
to  keep  my  plans  to  myself,  and,  secondly,  the 
ability  with  which  I  could  command  loyal  assistance 
without  the  assistants  knowing  more  of  their  work 
than  I  desired  them  to  know.  The  information  I 
possess  has  come  to  me  in  fragments,  and  here  in 
this  chamber  I  have  pieced  them  together. 

"Now  then,  having  said  this  much,  I  shall  say  no 
more  until  I  am  ready.  If  you  are  not  satisfied  you 
are  at  liberty  to  retire  from  the  case.  I  shall  not 
conceal  from  you,  that  if  you  do,  it  will  be  at  a  time 
when  you  can  be  of  the  most  use  to  me,  and  that 
your  retirement  will  be  the  source  of  great  delay 
and  embarassment.  But  I  shall  not  ask  you  to 
remain;  you  shall  be  absolutely  free  to  choose." 

Dorison  had  been  intently  listening  to  the  old 
man,  and  with  no  little  shame.  He  was  confounded 
to  hear  that  the  old  man  had  been  devoting  so  much 
time  to  his  own  affair  and  had  learned  so  much. 
He  was  also  greatly  impressed  with  the  masterful- 
ness of  the  old  detective  and  felt  that  he  himself 


CRUSHING  A    REBELLION.  161 

appeared  as  a  fretful,  impatient,  unintelligent  school 
boy.  So  he  said  quite  humbly: 

"I  shall  not  retire." 

"Very  well.  But  you  must  understand  that  I 
must  have  unquestioning  obedience." 

"You  shall  have  it." 

"Very  good.  Now,  I  may  say  to  you.  I  never 
was  engaged  in  a  case  where  the  lines  cross  each 
other  in  so  confusing  a  manner,  nor  did  I  ever  have 
two  cases  I  was  working  together  wherein  the  per- 
sons in  each  case  have  such  strange  relations  to  each 
other  without  bringing  the  critical  point  of  each 
case  together.  Here  is  an  instance.  We  have 
young  Eustace  under  suspicion  of  being  in  some- 
way connected  with  that  murder;  I  believe  your 
father,  dead  as  he  is,  is  in  some  way  connected  with 
it ;  I  have  reason  to  believe  that  the  older  Eustace 
was  at  one  period  of  his  life  intimately  connected 
with  your  father's  affairs;  I  am  certain  the  elder 
Eustace  in  no  way  touches  the  Parish  murder.  You 
perceive  how  necessary  it  is  to  maintain  a  clear 
hand  and  move  slowly  in  this  almost  inextricable 
tangle  of  the  two  cases.  Here  are  my  instructions 
for  your  movements.  I  want  you  to  engage  the 
elder  Eustace  in  a  conversation  as  to  your  father. 
The  way  is  open.  You  told  me  he  had  discovered 
a  great  resemblance  between  your  father  and  your- 
self." 

"A  coolness  has  sprung  up  between  the  elder 
Eustace  and  myself,"  said  Dorison. 

' '  Indeed,  — how  ? ' ' 


162  THE  MAN   WITH  A    THUMB. 

"Over  that  very  resemblance." 

The  old  man  evinced  increased  interest,  and 
demanded  to  know  everything,  the  very  smallest 
point.  Thus  urged,  Dorison  gave  him  a  minute 
and  careful  history  of  the  incident. 

When  the  recital  was  finished  the  old  detective 
thrust  his  hands  into  his  vest-pockets,  and  dropping 
his  chin  upon  his  breast,  closed  his  eyes  in  thought 
for  a  long  time.  When  he  spoke  it  was  rather  as  if 
he  were  thinking  aloud  than  addressing  Dorison. 

"When  Eustace  was  comparatively  a  young  man," 
he  said,  "he  endangered  his  fortune  by  extrava- 
gance and  bad  management.  Your  father  came  to 
his  aid,  took  charge  of  his  estate,  gave  him  financial 
aid,  lent  him  the  great  power  of  his  credit,  and  hav- 
ing straightened  out  his  affairs  obtained  a  diplo- 
matic appointment  abroad  for  him,  so  that  the 
ravages  in  his  fortune  might  be  repaired ;  in  other 
words,  saved  him  from  ruin.  In  return,  Eustace 
did  some  great  service  for  Dorison.  What  its 
nature  was  I  cannot  determine.  Nor  will  Eustace 
tell  as  intimate  a  friend  as  he  has.  Perhaps  he  may 
think  idle  curiosity  prompted  the  question — that 
he  would  tell  if  sufficient  reasons  were  given  him. 
At  all  events  the  career  Dorison  set  him  on  has 
resulted  in  his  living  abroad  many  more  years  than 
here,  since  that  time.  Can  it  be — can  that  be  the 
line  to  follow?  If  it  should  be  that,  that — but  no,  he 
was  abroad  when  Dorison  died — had  been  for  sev- 
eral years.  But  would  that  have  been  any  reason 
why  it  should  not  be  so." 


CRUSHIXG  A    REBELLION.  163 

He  relapsed  again  into  a  brown  study,  from  which 
Dorison  waited  for  him  to  emerge,  confused  and 
perplexed  by  the  maze  in  which  he  found  himself, 
and  unable  to  perceive  even  a  glimmer  of  light. 

"I  regret,"  said  Cathcart  rousing  up,  "that  this 
misunderstanding  has  arisen.  It  would  have  been 
avoided  if  you  had  followed  my  instructions  obedi- 
ently. You  did  not  play  the  part  you  yourself 
deliberately  chose,  before  we  came  into  contact. 
If  you  assume  a  role  you  must  play  the  whole  of  it, 
or  necessarily  fail.  You  choose  to  pretend  to  be 
some  one  else,  yet  the  first  time  you  are  seriously 
questioned  you  refuse  to  carry  out  your  assumption. 
That  was  foolish.  Your  lie  would  not  have  been 
any  greater  in  denying  your  paternity  in  words,  than 
it  was  when  you  permitted  yourself  to  be  introduced 
under  a  name  intended  to  deny  that  paternity. 
How  can  you  repair  the  blunder?  Have  you  quar- 
reled with  young  Eustace?" 

"No,"  replied  Dorison.  "He  asked  me  this 
afternoon  to  a  theater  party  next  Monday  and  to 
escort  his  sister." 

"Um.  This  is  Thursday.  Well,  seek  an  inter- 
view with  the  elder  Eustace  as  soon  as  you  can,  to 
repair  the  blunder." 


CHAPTER  XVI. 

BREAD  FOUND  AFTER  MANY  DAYS. 

D ORISON  saw  nothing  of  Cathcart  for  several 
days.     In  the  mean  time  no  opportunity  was 
presented  him  to  have  an  interview  with  the  elder 
Mr.  Eustace,  so  that  he  might  clear  up  the  mis- 
understanding. 

Monday  came,  and  in  pursuance  of  his  engage- 
ment he  went  to  the  Eustace  residence  to  escort 
Evelyn  to  the  theater.  He  was  distinctly  conscious, 
on  arriving,  of  an  air  of  constraint  in  his  reception, 
though  so  far  as  the  young  lady  herself  was  con-, 
cerned,  he  could  see  no  difference  in  the  gracious- 
ness  of  her  manner. 

At  first,  he  was  disposed  to  attribute  everything  to 
his  imagination,  until  he  found  that  Mr.  Eustace 
was  in  an  adjoining  room,  the  doors  of  which  were 
open,  and  did  not  come  forward  to  meet  him. 

"I  shall  be  very  frank  with  you,  Mr.  Dudley," 
said  Miss  Eustace,  as  they  drove  from  the  door. 
"You  have  offended  father  in  some  way." 

"I  wish  you  would  carry  your  frankness  further," 
said  Dorison  in  return,  "and  tell  me  in  what  way. 
I  am  conscious  of  his  change  of  demeanor,  without 
being  certain  as  to  its  cause." 

"The  strange  thing  is  that  while  he  shows  his 
164 


BREAD  FOUND  AFTER  MANY  DA  YS.      165 

displeasure  he  refrains  from  telling  why,  though 
Charley  urged  him  to  do  so." 

"I  can  give  no  other  reason  than  the  one  I  gave 
your  brother." 

"I  know,  Charley  told  me.  But  it  is  not  that. 
Charley  urged  that  to  father,  but  he  dismissed  it 
with  a  wave  of  his  hand,  as  not  being  of  the  slightest 
importance.  Of  course  he  could  not  find  anything 
in  that  for  displeasure,  and  if  he  did,  would  not 
refrain  from  telling  if  it  were  so.  There  is  some- 
thing else." 

"  Then  I  am  utterly  at  a  loss.  Believe  me,  Miss 
Eustace,  I  am  too  fond  of  your  brother's  friendship 
and  too  sensible  of  the  kindness  shown  me  within 
your  household,  not  to  quickly  seek,  with  an 
apology,  to  repair  any  offense  I  may  have  given,  if 
I  knew  wherein  it  lay.  I  really  hoped  that  before 
this  it  would  have  been  apparent,  that  I  should 
have  been  enlightened  either  by  you  or  your 
brother." 

"  It  is  something  serious,  Mr.  Dudley,  and  at 
one  time  Charley  thought  his  invitations  would 
have  to  be  recalled." 

"  So  serious  as  that,"  said  Dudley,  thoroughly 
understanding  that  in  this  tactical  way  Miss  Eustace 
had  made  him  understand  her  father  had  opposed 
further  reception  of  himself  at  the  house,  and  had 
yielded  his  position  only  upon  being  convinced  that 
persistence  on  his  part  would  result  in  embarass- 
ment  to  his  son. 

"  He  has  come  to  believe  I  am  John  Dorison 


166  THE  MAN   WITH  A    THUMB. 

figuring  under  an  assumed  name — the  disgraced 
son,"  he  said  to  himself,  "and  not  being  certain 
does  not  wish  to  give  it  as  a  reason." 

The  thought  troubled  him,  and  he  was  not  con- 
soled by  the  other  one  occurring  to  him,  that  he 
had  had,  in  the  family  difference,  the  active  par- 
tisanship of  Evelyn  and  Charley.  The  affair 
sobered  him  so  that  it  Was  with  difficulty  that  he 
could  shake  off  his  despondency. 

He  made  the  effort  with  these  words  : 

"  I  will  make  a  serious  effort  to  discover  the 
cause,  Miss  Eustace,  and  shall  do  all  that  is  proper 
for  a  man  to  do  under  the  circumstances." 

He  was  certain  that  this  assurance  gave  the 
young  lady  much  satisfaction,  and  she  became  quite 
gay  during  the  rest  of  the  short  drive. 

At  theater  they  found  the  rest  of  the  party,  and 
in  tbe  pleasure  of  the  moment  Dorison  forgot  the 
unpleasant  impression  that  had  been  put  upon  him. 
He  found  the  young  lady  a  delightful  companion, 
and  thought  she  carried  about  her  the  same  charm 
of  personality  possessed  by  her  brother.  She  was 
endowed  with  that  quality,  rarely  possessed  by  a 
woman — a  keen  appreciation  of  humor,  and  he 
himself,  for  that  evening,  was  subject  to  one  of  those 
alternations  men  of  a  melancholy  and  despondent 
nature  are  at  times.  His  gayety  swept  up  to  high 
spirits,  dangerously  near  to  boisterousness,  and  he 
was  conscious  of  a  marked  endeavor  to  impress 
himself  favorably  upon  the  lady  who  was  his  com- 
panion. 


BREAD  FOUND  AFTER  MANY  DA  YS.      167 

He  talked  much  at  the  supper  after  the  enter- 
tainment, which  was  not  his  wont,  and  what  was 
better,  talked  well,  with  a  gay,  capricious,  and 
whimsical  fancy ;  told  humorous  stories,  showered 
witticisms  without  stint,  which  were  entirely  unpre- 
meditated, and  carried  all  with  him  into  his  own 
wild  spirits. 

"  Upon  my  word,  Dudley  !  "  cried  young  Eus- 
tace, "  I  never  knew  you  in  such  a  mood  before. 
If  I  had  not  been  watching  your  glass  and  noticed 
your  moderation,  I  would  have  supposed  you  were 
obtaining  your  inspiration  from  wine." 

"  You  forget  that  I  promised  you  solemnly  that 
I  would  not  frighten  your  sister  with  despondency. 
What  would  you  ?  I  have  not  a  large  assortment 
of  moods  at  my  disposal.  Either  deep  despond,- 
ency  or  high  gayety.  To-morrow  I  will  have  a  wet 
towel  around  my  heart  while  you  have  it  around 
your  head." 

"  That  is  a  base  hint  that  I  am  indulging  in  too 
much  wine.  I  honestly  believe  the  slur  was  thrown 
out  to  prevent  me  from  describing  the  awfully' 
despondent  mood  he  was  in  the  last  time  I  saw  him. 
Then  he  told  me  that  he  was  insane,  that  he 
proposed  to  immolate  me  upon  the  sacrificial 
altar  of  a  phantom  he  was  pursuing,  and  in  the 
most  tragic  manner  urged  me  to  beware  of  him- 
self." 

Dorison  blushed  and  was  disconcerted,  but  look- 
ing at  Miss  Eustace,  his  thoughts  were  diverted, 
for  he  perceived  an  expression  of  dislike  and 


1 68  THE  MAN   WITH  A    THUMB 

annoyance  flit  across  her  face,  and  following  her 
eyes,  saw  that  Langdon  had  entered  the  room  and 
was  ostentatiously  bowing  to  her.  She  did  not  re- 
spond except  with  a  haughty  and  well-bred  stare, 
though  her  brother  made  a  gesture  as  if  to  rise  from 
his  chair. . 

Dorison  laid  his  hand  upon  his  knee  : 

"  Do  nothing,  Charley  ;  you  cannot  resent  the 
affront  without  a  scene,  and  the  mere  act  of  bow- 
ing is  not  sufficient." 

"  You  are  right.  What  an  insufferable  bore  it  is 
that  we  should  be  haunted  by  this  fellow." 

Langdon  was  accompanied  by  a  young  man,  and 
it  was  plain  they  were  making  the  Eustace  party 
the  subject  of  their  conversation.  The  incident, 
unimportant  as  it  was,  the  meaning  of  which,  how- 
ever, was  known  but  to  Miss  Eustace,  her  brother, 
and  Dorison,  threw  a  damper  upon  the  spirits  of 
those  who  had  been  the  gayest,  and  soon  all  rose 
from  the  table.  As  they  crossed  the  room  it  was 
"necessary  to  pass  near  the  table  at  which  Langdon 
was  seated  with  his  companion. 

Fearing  that  Langdon  would  attempt  to  secure 
recognition,  Dorison  maneuvered  to  get  young 
Eustace  in  the  lead  of  the  party,  intending  to  bring 
up  the  rear  himself.  His  purpose  was  to  prevent  a 
scene  if  possible. 

As  he  anticipated,  Langdon  rose  as  Miss  Eustace 
approached,  with  a  smile,  intended  to  be  engaging, 
ready  to  extend  his  hand.  Dorison  quickly  changed 
to  the  side  of  Miss  Eustace  other  than  that  on 


BREAD  FOUND  AFTER  MANY  DA  YS.      169 

which  he  was  walking,  thus  bringing  himself 
between  her  and  Langdon. 

It  was  the  work  of  a  moment,  and  stopping,  he 
said  sternly  and  menacingly  : 

"  It  should  be  plain  to  you,  sir,  the  lady  does  not 
desire  to  be  recognized  by  you." 

A  flush  overspread  Langdon's  face,  and  his  eyes 
shot  forth  an  angry  glance  as  he  said  : 

"  My  pretty  fellow,  you  are  making  debts  for  me 
to  pay.  You  will  have  to  answer  for  this  insult. 
Who  made  you  the  protector  of  the  lady  ?  " 

"Common  decency,  when  a  loafer  insults  her," 
replied  Dorison,  moving  on  quietly,  before  Lang- 
don could  say  anything  further.  Miss  Eustace, 
having  penetrated  his  purpose,  had  walked  on 
rapidly. 

"  Did  that  scoundrel  attempt  to  speak  to  you, 
Evelyn,"  Dorison  heard  young  Eustace  ask,  as  he 
joined  the  party  in  the  vestibule. 

"Yes,"  replied  his  sister,  "but  was  prevented  by 
Mr.  Dudley." 

"  You  are  putting  my  sister  and  our  people  in 
your  debt  rapidly,  Dudley,"  said  Eustace  warmly. 

"  That  he  is  indeed,"  echoed  Evelyn,  glancing 
gratefully  at  Dorison,  in  a  manner  which  brought 
to  his  mind  vividly  the  scene  in  the  drug-store  on 
the  day  he  first  met  her. 

"  Strange,"  he  said  lightly.  "  But  do  you  know 
that  Langdon  said  something  of  the  kind  also." 

Evelyn  looked  at  him  quickly  in  alarm,  and 
exclaimed : 


17°  THE  MAN   WITH  A    THUMB. 

"I  hope  you  will  get  into  no  trouble  by  it." 

"No  fear,"  replied  Dorison  hastily.  "I  shall 
really  be  obliged  to  him,  if  he  will  be  the  cause  of 
such  interest  in  my  well-being." 

All  this  had  passed  rapidly  as  the  carriages  were 
being  called,  and  in  a  moment  more  he  was  on  his 
way  with  the  young  lady,  endeavoring  to  make  her 
forget  the  disagreeable  contretemps  by  his  gay 
talk. 

After  leaving  her  at  her  house  he  went  straightway 
to  his  own  rooms,  to  dream  of  violet  eyes  and  golden 
hair,  no  matter  how  unattainable  they  seemed  to  be 
to  him. 

The  following  morning,  on  arising,  he  was  handed 
a  note,  written  hastily  in  pencil : 

"Will  Mr.  Dudley  meet  the  lady  he  saved  from 
being  arrested,  this  morning,  at  eleven,  at  the  corner 
Lexington  Avenue  and  3oth  Street  sharp.  It's  for 
his  good. 

"Gratefully  his  friend, 

"BESS." 

Not  a  little  astonished,  and  at  first  deeming  it  to 
be  a  foolish  woman's  effort  to  draw  him  into  an 
acquaintance,  and  moreover  disgusted  with  it,  he 
determined  to  ignore  it.  But,  on  reflection,  he 
thought  there  was  something  significant  in  the  fact 
that  she  had  learned  his  name,  and'  he  further 
remarked  to  himself,  engaged  as  he  was  in  such  a 
search,  he  had  no  right  to  cast  aside  any  incident, 
however  slight  or  insignificant  or  improbable  it 
might  appear. 


BREAD  FOUND  AFTER  MANY  DA  VS.      i?i 

Hence  he  determined  to  meet  her  as  requested. 
As  he  had  slept  late,  it  was  already  near  the  hour, 
and  so  doffing  his  lounging  jacket,  he  prepared  for 
the  street,  and  set  out  for  the  trysting  place,  as  he 
laughingly  termed  it. 

The  girl  was  already  there,  and  approaching 
him,  said: 

"Let  us  walk  up  Lexington  Avenue.  There  is 
less  chance  of  my  being  seen.  I'm  takin'  chances 
doin'  this.  You've  crossed  my  man  some  way,  an' 
he's  down  on  you." 

"Who  is  your  man?"  asked  Dorison. 

"His  name  is  Langdon." 

"Oh!"  said  Dorison,  surprised.  "What  is  he  to 
you?" 

"He's  my  husband,"  she  said  quickly.  "Don't 
you  believe  nothin'  else.  The  priest  didn't  marry 
us,  but  we  were  married  all  the  same,  though  he  does 
try  to  act  and  say  we  weren't.  But  we  was  all  the 
same." 

"Well,  what  have  I  done,  and  if  he  is  down  on 
me,  what  can  he  do?" 

"I  dunno  what  you've  done  to  him.  But  he's 
been  grumblin'  for  some  time  about  a  feller  named 
Dudley,  before  I  know'd  it  was  you — the  one  what 
saved  me  from  arrest.  The  other  day  he  came 
home  growlin'  about  you  interfering  in  his  affairs, 
and  last  night  when  he  came  late,  a  fellow  named 
Pittston  was  waiting  for  him ;  and  he  took  him  off 
in  another  room  to  talk  with  him.  Something  you 
did  to  him  last  night  made  him  very  mad,  an'  I 


I?2  THE  MAX    117777  A    THUMB. 

heard  him  say  he'd  git  you  dosed  for  it  before  many 
hours." 

Dorison  laughed. 

"I  don't  think  there's  much  to  be  afraid  of." 

"Yes,  there  is,"  earnestly  replied  the  girl.  "If 
there  wasn't  I  wouldn't  be  takin'  the  chances  I  am. 
Now  sir.  I'm  grateful  to  you  for  what  ye  did  for  me, 
and  because  after  ye  did  it  ye  didn't  insult  me,  as 
most  men  do.  So  I  said  I'd  give  you  a  warnin'. 
He  doesn't  treat  me  so  well  that  I  shouldn't  do  it, 
any  how.  He's  a  bad  one  when  he's  roused,  and 
that  feller  Pittston,  who  I  hate,  and  him,  has  got 
some  rough  fellers  that'll  do  anything  they  tell  them. 
You've  got  'em  both  down  on  you.  What  they  will 
do  or  can  do  I  don't  know,  but  you  want  to  look 
out  and  be  careful.  I  don't  know  just  what  they 
mean  by  dosin'  a  man,  but  I  do  know  that  in 
Chicago  they  talked  about  dosin'  a  man  one  night, 
and  after  that  he  was  found  on  the  street  nearly 
dead." 

"What  does  Langdon  do  for  a  living?" 

"He  don't  do  nothing.  He's  got  money  of  his 
own." 

"Do  you  know  that?" 

"I  know  he  aint  never  done  nothin',  aint  never 
done  no  work,  and  yet  he  has  all  the  money  he 
wants.  He  don't  stint  me." 

"Where  did  you  marry  him?" 

"In  Chicago.  My  folks  were  agin  him.  My 
father  is  a  policeman  there,  and  said  he  was  nothin' 
but  a  gambler.  He  wasn't,  though.  I  ran  away 


BREA  D  FO  UND  A1>~1  'RR  MA  A"  I "  DA  YS.      1 7  3 

with  him,  and  father  thought  I  wasn't  married  to 
him  first,  but  afterwards  he  knew  better,  although 
I  came  to  know  that  his  name  wasn't  always  Lang- 
don." 

"What  was  it!"  asked  Dorison. 

"I  never  heard,"  said  the  woman  shortly. 

"Is  he  as  flush  of  money  as  he  always  was!" 
asked  Dorison. 

"I  aint  seen  no  difference,"  replied  the  woman ; 
"but  don't  you  think  I've  done  enough  when  I 
warn  you  of  danger,  without  askin'  me  to  give  him 
away?" 

Dorison  answered  laughing: 

"Before  I  ask  you  to  give  him  away  I  must  know 
there  is  something  to  give  away.  However,  I  am 
much  obliged  for  your  kindness.  I  will  be  careful, 
though  I  don't  know  what  he  can  do.  Do  you 
know  what  I've  done  to  him?" 

"Only  he  says  you  are  interfering  in  his  affairs.  I 
heard  him  say  you  followed  Pittston  into  a  restau- 
rant, and  did  it  because  a  Chicago  detective  named 
Cathcart  told  you  to.  And  he  said  that  if  you 
wasn't  a  swell  in  town  he'd  think  you  was  a  de- 
tective." 

Dorison  laughed  at  the  idea,  and  further  asked: . 

"Do  you  know  what  I  did  to  him  last  night  that 
made  him  angry?" 

"No." 

"I  prevented  him  from  speaking  to  a  young  lady 
who  didn't  want  to  be  noticed  by  him?" 

"I  know — a  Miss  Eustace.     I've  heard  him  curse 


174          y '///•:  MAN  //'//•//  .-/  TIIUMH. 

the  family  and  say  he  knew  a  way  to  pull  'em  down 
in  time." 

A  malicious  thought  popped  into  Dorison's  head. 

"Do  you  know  what  he  proposes  to  do?" 

"No." 

"I  do." 

"What?" 

"I'm  afraid  you  will  get  angry  with  me  and  make 
a  row." 

"No,  I  wont,"  she  said,  with  breathless  interest. 

"He  wants  to  marry  the  youngest  Miss  Eustace, 
and  has  tried  to  get  her  to  run  away  with  him." 

Dorison  was  fairly  frightened  at  the  effect  of  his 
words. 

The  black  eyes  of  the  woman  flashed  fire,  and 
her  strong,  handsome  face  became  hideously  con- 
vulsed with  an  anger  that  seemed  to  be  ungovern- 
able. 

"You  are  not  lying  to  me,"  she  hissed. 

"Now  becalm.  You  promised  not  to  make  a 
row.  I  shall  not  say  another  word  until  you  are 
composed." 

The  girl  made  a  desperate  effort  to  regain  con- 
trol of  herself,  and  while  she  was  doing  so  they 
walked  some  distance  in  silence. 

"Tell  me  all  you  know,"  she  said  at  length.  "I 
will  be  quiet." 

"Who  is  Dr.  Fassett?"  he  asked. 

"He's  a  doctor  that  used  to  come  to  see  Harry 
every  morning.  I  don't  know  anything  about  him, 
except  he  used  to  have  a  close  talk  with  him,  but 


BREAD  FOUND  AFTER  MANY  DA  VS.      175 

about  what  I  don't  know.  Harry's  got  some  hold 
on  him.  Why  do  you  ask?" 

"He  is  the  family  physician  of  the  Eustace  peo- 
ple, and  introduced  Langdon  there.  He  tried  to 
make  the  younger  daughter  like  Langdon,  and 
arranged  meetings  alone  with  Langdon.  The 
brother,  young  Eustace,  told  me  of  this,  and  that 
ever  since  they  found  it  out  they  have  kept  so  close 
a  watch  on  the  younger  daughter  that  she  can't  see 
him  at  all.  But  he  is  still  hanging  around." 

The  girl's  struggle  with  her  passion  was  some- 
thing pathetic. 

"That's  what  he's  tryin'  to  make  people  believe 
I'm  not  his  wife  for,  then,"  she  gasped. 

"Do  you  think  so  much  of  him?"  he  asked. 

"Does  any  wife  want  to  see  her  husband  run  after 
another  woman?" 

"I  presume  not,  but  he'll  never  run  away  with 
her?" 

"No,  he  never  will,"  said  the  girl,  with  frightful 
emphasis. 

"Who  is  Pittston?"  he  asked. 

"I  don't  know.  He's  a  feller  of  good  family  in 
Chicago.  Harry  knew  him  there.  He's  crooked, 
I  think.  Hang  it,  sometimes  I  think  Harry  is,  but 
I  don't  know.  They  never  tell  me  anything.  Harry 

laughed  one  day  and  said  I  was  too  d d  honest 

to-  tell  anything  to.  They've  got  some  ugly  fellers 
about  'em,  and  you  look  out  for  'em." 

"I  will  look  out.  But  what  will  you  do?  Tell 
Harry  what  I've  told  you?" 


176  THE  MAN   WITH  A    THUMB.   . 

"I'll  tell  him  nothing.  Don't  you  fear.  But  he'll 
never  run  away  and  marry  anybody.  I'll  see  this 
girl  and  make  her  know  I'm  his  wife.  I  must  get 
back  now,  or  I'll  be  missed." 

The  woman  slipped  down  the  cross  street,  and 
Dorison  retraced  his  steps  through  Lexington  Ave- 
nue, deep  in  thought.  After  carefully  reviewing 
his  talk  with  the  girl  he  said : 

"I  presume  the  first  thing  to  do  is  to  see  Cath- 
cart  and  inform  him..  The  next  thing,  to  see  Eus- 
tace and  tell  him.  It  strikes  me  that  there  is  a 
strong  weapon  in  this  to  use  with  the  young  girl. 
It  ought  to  rid  her  of  any  sneaking  notion  she  may 
have  for  Langdon." 


CHAPTER  XVII. 

PIECING  OUT  A  STORY. 

WHILE  Dorison  was  having  the  conversation 
with  the  woman,  as  set  forth  in  the  previous 
chapter,  Cathcart  was  laboring  over  a  mass  of  notes 
in  his  own  chamber  in  Bond  Street. 

"The  story  is  made,"  he  said,  as  he  leaned  back 
in  his  chair,  his  hands  thrust  in  his  vest-pockets. 
"Facts  are  connected  by  a  little  effort  of  the  imagi- 
nation. A  little  work  in  confirming  the  imaginary 
parts,  and  if  it  does  not  go  to  pieces,  that  part  of 
the  affair  is  concluded.  If-  it  does,  at  all  events 
there  will  be  triumph  enough  in  the  other  part  to 
compensate  for  all  the  labor." 

"Um,"  he  muttered,  as  he  reached  forward, 
taking  up  a  memorandum.  "The  records  show  the 
house  to  have  been  transferred  April  22,  1854,  by 
Richard  Basselin,  for  $11,500;  a  check  is  given  to 
Richard  Basselin,  April  22,  1854,  a  certified  check, 
and  endorsed  by  Richard  Basselin,  is  returned  as  a 
voucher.  Thus  a  clear  connection  is  unmistakably 
traced.  Now  to  put  that  other  conception  of  mine 
to  the  test,  and  if  it  should  prove  to  be  a  correct 
one  the  road  will  be  straight  to  the  end." 

He  took  up  another  pile  of  notes,  and  began  the 
work  of  arranging  in  accordance  with  some  plan  he 
177 


1 78  THE  MAN   WITH  A    THUMB. 

carried  in  his  head ;  finishing  which  he  transferred 
the  contents  of  each  separate  slip  of  paper  to  a 
sheet,  commenting  as  he  did  so  in  brief  sentences: 
"That  fits  like  a  glove."  "That  is  somewhat  con- 
tradictory." "There  is  a  straight  connection." 
"A  screw  loose  there,"  and  so  on. 

He  was  thus  engaged  when  Dorison  entered. 

"Any  new  developments?"  he  asked  curtly. 

"I  have  had  a  rather  singular  adventure  this 
morning,  which  I  have  hastened  to  tell  you." 

The  old  man  opened  a  newspaper  lying  beside 
him  and  spread  it  over  the  papers  lying  on  his 
table. 

Having  done  this  to  his  satisfaction  he  swung  his 
chair  around  so  that  he  faced  Dorison,  and  said: 

"Tell  it  to  me  in  detail." 

To  do  this  it  was  necessary  to  again  go  back  to 
that  evening  when  Dorison  wandered  to  Twenty- 
ninth  Street  and  Third  Avenue — that  evening  so 
fruitful  of  results.  Dorison  consumed  half  an  hour 
in  the  recital  of  his  adventure,  during  which  Cath- 
cart  listened  intently,  interposing  neither  word,  mo- 
tion, nor  gesture,  keeping  his  keen,  bright  eyes  on 
Dorison's  face. 

"You  have  told  it  well  and  clearly,"  he  said  as 
Dorison  concluded.  "No  necessity  of  going  over  it 
again.  What  you  tell  is  more  important  than  you 
suppose,  I  imagine.  One  part  confirms  a  theory  I 
hardly  dared  to  entertain.  You  must  heed  that 
warning  of  the  woman." 

Dorison  laughed  in  derision. 


PIECING  OUT  A  STORY.  179 

"I  give  it  no  importance,"  he  said;  "I  told  it 
simply  as  showing  why  the  woman  wrote  me." 

"But  you  must  give  it  importance, "  said  Cath- 
cart  earnestly.  "Dosing  is  a  Western  term  for 
sandbagging  a  man.  It  means  something." 

"Threatened  men  live  long,"  laughed  Dorison. 

The  old  detective  glanced  irritably  at  the  young 
man,  saying: 

"You  are  self-sufficient  at  times,  and  when  you 
are,  you  display  your  ignorance  of  the  ways  of  the 
world. ' ' 

He  took  up  a  b6ok  of  telegraph  blanks,  and 
rapidly  scribbled  a  telegram,  handing  it  to  Dorison. 

' '  Will  you  do  me  the  favor  of  sending  that  when 
you  leave  here.  You  may  read  it." 

Dorison  did  so  with  some  interest.  It  was  ad- 
dressed to  a  private  detective  in  Chicago: 

"Find  as  soon  as  possible  whether  Harry  Lang- 
don  was  ever  known  by  any  other  name." 

Dorison  inquired  whether  the  person  to  whom 
the  dispatch  was  addressed  would  know  who  was 
meant. 

"Very  well.  I  have  had  previous  correspon- 
dence on  the  matter.  The  officer  on  Pittston,"  he 
continued  abruptly,  "has  been  able  to  find  out  very 
little  about  him.  So  far  as  his  life  is  concerned  he 
seems  to  be  engaged  in  no  business — idling  his  time 
innocently.  It  is  explained,  however  .by  the  news 
you  bring  me  that  I  was  recognized  by  him.  They 
have  suspended  whatever  business  they  were  up  to, 
until  they  find  out  what  I'm  up  to.  They  evidently 


l8o  THE  MAN  WITH  A    THUMB. 

think  I'm  here  on  a  visit  only.  One  ntore  question 
and  then  you  must  go.  Have  you  seen  the  elder 
Eustace  yet?" 

"No;   I  have  tried  to  without  success." 

"Don't  do  it  for  several  days.  Indeed  don't 
meet  him  at  all;  avoid  him  until  you  see  me 
again." 

Wondering  what  was  the  reason  of  this  sudden 
change  of  policy,  Dorison  promised. 

"I  want  you  to  be  within  call,"  said  the  detective. 
"My  impression  is  that  you  would  do  better  to  keep 
to  your  rooms,  so  that  if  I  want  you  I  can  find  you 
without  delay." 

"  Very  well." 

"  Now  get  away.     I've  work  to  do." 

As  Dorison  went  out  of  the  room,  Cathcart  called 
on  some  one  in  an  adjoining  room.  The  officer 
who  had  shadowed  Langdon  and  Pittston  appeared. 

"  Mr.  Dudley  is  threatened  with  injury,"  he  said, 
"  by  Langdon  and  Pittston.  They  won't  do  it ; 
some  one  whom  they  employ  will,  if  it  is  done  at  all. 
I  want  you  to  be  on  his  track  and  see  if  he  is  fol- 
lowed. He  obstinately  refuses  to  believe  in  it.  I 
think  a  disguise  will  be  necessary." 

"  I  can  follow  him  home  to-day  without  one. 
After  that  I  will  '  fake  '  up  something." 

"  Very  well." 

So  soon  as  the  officer  had  hurried  out  after  Dori- 
son, Cathcart  gathered  up  his  papers  on  the  table 
and  placed  them  in  a  wooden  box  on  the  floor, 
which  he  locked  carefully.  Donning  his  topcoat 


PIECING  OUT  A   STORY.  181 

and  taking  his  hat,  he  went  out,  walking  to  the 
Bowery.  Here  he  sought  a  drug-store,  and  enter- 
ing, asked  permission  to  look  at  the  directory. 
Securing  .the  address  he  desired,  he  took  an 
upbound  Fourth  Avenue  car. 

Arriving  at  the  corner  of  Fifty-sixth  Street  he 
descended  and  walked  in  the  direction  of  Fifth 
Avenue.  Near  that  thoroughfare  of  fashion  and 
wealth  he  stopped  and  ascended  the  steps  of  one  of 
the  handsomest  dwellings  of  the  block. 

It  was  the  residence  of  Herbert  Clavering 
Eustace. 

"  This  is  my  card,"  he  said  to  the  servant.  "  But 
it  will  convey  nothing  to  Mr.  Eustace.  Please  tell 
him  my  call  is  not  a  social  one,  but  on  business, 
important  business." 

He  was  called  into  a  rear  room  which  Mr.  Eustace 
reserved  a's  his  study. 

"  I  have  brought  you  here  because  we  would  be 
free  from  interruption,"  said  Mr.  Eustace.  "  I  am 
at  your  service,  sir." 

Cathcart  bent  his  head  a  moment  as  if  thinking 
how  to  begin  his  business.  Mr.  Eustace  waited 
patiently  and  courteously. 

"  I  am  here,"  said  the  old  detective,  "  in  pursu- 
ance of  an  inquiry  I  am  conducting,  and  recent 
developments  have  suggested  to  me  that  you  may 
have  much  knowledge  of  the  matter." 

He  lifted  his  head  as  he  completed  his  sentence, 
and  regarded  Mr.  Eustace  fixedly. 

"  Unless  I  am  further  informed,"  replied  Mr. 


1 82  THE  MAN  1VITII  A    THUMB. 

Eustace,  smiling,  "  I  shall  be  unable  to  tell  whether 
I  have  the  information  you  desire  or  not." 

"On  the  i4th  day  of  July,  1871,"  said  Cathcart, 
ignoring  the  remark,  and  proceeding  as  in  continu- 
ance of  his  beginning,  "  Reuben  Dorison  died. 
When  found,  an  unfinished  letter  was  before  him. 
He  had  been  stricken  with  death  in  the  very  act  of 
its  composition.  To  whom  it  was  intended  to  be 
addressed  never  was  known,  is,,  not  known  now,  but 
it  did  a  great  wrong.  It  charged  some  one  with 
the  commission  of  many  crimes,  to  cover  which, 
and  to  pay  the  damages  of  which,  had  wasted  his 
fortune.  He  was  asking  for  assistance.  By  impli- 
cation, indeed  one  may  say  by  inference  alone,  these 
crimes  were  charged  against  his  only  son,  a  young 
man  upon  whom  he  had  lavished  his  affection  and 
of  whom  he  had  apparently  been  very  fond." 

"  Ah  !  "  said  Mr.  Eustace,  deeply  interested,  "  I 
can  confirm  that." 

"  The  executor  and  the  immediate  friends,  how- 
ever, insisted  that  the  letter  condemned  the  son, 
and  indeed  employed  the  police  to  trace  the  crimes 
charged,  and  the  friends  of  the  young  man  cut  him 
and  snubbed  him.  He  strove  as  frantically 
to  disprove  the  charges,  as  the  police  'worked 
industriously  to  trace  them.  Both  failed  utterly, 
and  the  son,  at  last  despairing  and  wholly  miser- 
able, abandoned  further  effort,  left  the  city  and 
settled  in  the  West.  At  this  late  day  I  am  em- 
ployed in  an  endeavor  to  solve  the  riddle.  I  am  a 
Western  detective." 


PIECING  OUT  A   STORY.  183 

Mr.  Eustace  gave  a  great  start,  and  a  look  of 
blank  amazement  spread  over  his  face.  It  was  as 
if  he  had  said  in  words,  "  You  a  detective  !  I  never 
would  have  believed  it.  You  do  not  meet  my  pre- 
conception of  a  detective  at  all." 

"  This  movement  instituted  by  the  young  man, 
after  the  lapse  of  eight  years,  has  no  other  purpose 
than  that  of  removing  from  his  name  the  stigma 
placed  upon  it  by  that  unfinished  letter.  He  seeks 
no  property,  for  his  father's  executors  discovered 
there  was  no  property  left." 

"  No  property  left  ?  "  exclaimed  Mr.  Eustace. 
"  Why,  he  had  a  splendid  property." 

"  Had,  yes.  But  not  when  he  died.  Permit  me 
to  show  you  a  copy  of  that  unfortunate  letter." 

He  handed  Mr.  Eustace  a  sheet  of  paper  which 
he  had  taken  from  his  pocket.  After  it  was  read 
Mr.  Eustace  returned  it,  saying  : 

"  I  was  abroad  at  the  time  of  Mr.  Dorison's 
death,  had  been  for  several  years,  and  for  two  years 
after.  At  the  exact  time  I  was  in  the  far  East 
upon  a  special  diplomatic  mission,  and  therefore 
not  until  my  return  to  Paris,  many  months  after- 
wards, did  I  hear  of  its  occurrence.  I  presume  by 
that  time  interest  in  the  events  surrounding  it  had 
subsided,  and  upon  my  return  to  this  city  was 
almost  all  forgotten,  and  what  was  remembered 
was  perverted.  All  that  I  heard  was  that  the 
young  man  had  behaved  very  badly,  and  had  been 
discarded  by  his  father  previous  to  the  father's 
death  ;  that  he  had  disappeared.  I  thought  it 


184  THE  MAN  IV I  Til  A    THUMK. 

strange,  for  the  very  last  letter  I  had  from  Reu- 
ben Dorison,  written  some  weeks  before  his  death, 
but  received  by  me  many  months  after  it,  while 
speaking  of  troubles  complicating  his  old  age, 
referred  in  enthusiastic  terms  to  the  comfort  and 
pride  he  had  in  his  only  son." 

"You  maintained  a  close  intimacy  with  Mr. 
Dorison  ?  "  asked  Cathcart. 

"  Yes  ;  it  could  not  be  closer,"  replied  Mr.  Eus- 
tace warmly.  "  At  one  period  of  our  lives  it  was 
sacredly  confidential — a  confidence  which  doubt- 
less would  have  made  me  familiar  with  every  event 
in  his  life,  and  him  with  that  in  mine,  had  not  a 
long  separation,  by  which  we  could  not  meet, 
except  at  the  intervals  of  years,  and  then  only 
briefly,  occurred.  Upon  my  side  there  was  abso- 
lutely no  reservation  so  long  as  it  continued." 

"  He  did  you  essential  service  at  one  time  ? " 

"  He  did  indeed." 

"  Saved  you  from  ruin  by  taking  charge  of  your 
estate,  which  you  had  endangered  by  extravagance 
and  recklessness  of  life,  lending  the  aid  of  his 
finances  and  credit  ? " 

The  face  of  Mr.  Eustace  flushed  deeply,  and  he 
looked  with  no  little  anger  upon  the  calm  and 
immobile  face  of  the  detective. 

"  It  is  true,  sir,"  he  replied  with  his  stateliest 
manner,  "but  how  you  came  to  know  it  I  cannot  tell." 

"  I  have  finally. won  Mr.  Dorison's  executor  to  a 
belief  in  the  innocence  of  the  son.  He  has  given 
me  access  to  all  of  the  papers  of  the  estate." 


PIECING  OUT  A   STORY.  185 

"You  are  at  no  pains  to  make  your  words 
gentle,"  said  Mr.  Eustace,  with  much  dignity. 

"  I  am  a  surgeon  with  a  probe.  I  cannot  expect 
to  escape  inflicting  pain.  Justice,  delayed  eight 
years,  demands  the  truth  at  all  cost.  I  have  read 
you  very  inaccurately  if  I  am  mistaken  in  assuming 
you  to  be  a  man  of  strict  honor,  high  regard  for 
justice,  and  a  deep  sense  of  the  obligation  a  man 
owes  another  in  distress." 

Mr.  Eustace  colored  under  the  flattering  estimate 
of  his  character. 

"  I  asked  the  question  from  no  idle  curiosity, 
nor  from  a  desire  to  inflict  pain,  but  in  order  to 
confirm  a  theory  I  had  formed  as  to  the  relations 
existing  between  you  and  Mr.  Dorison.  Such  con- 
fidence and  reliance  as  you  gave  him  begets  a 
return.  It  is  knowledge  of  Mr.  Dorison's  life  I 
want,  not  of  yours.  Now,  sir,  up  to  this  time  you 
have  accepted  me  on  the  strength  of  my  own  state- 
ment as  to  what  I  am.  I  am  about  to  ask  you 
questions  which  you  should  not  answer  a  stranger 
or  one  having  no  reasonable  right  to  ask  them. 
Do  me  the  favor  to  examine  my  credentials." 

He  handed  Mr.  Eustace  a  package  of  papers  he 
drew  from  an  inner  pocket,  and  lay  back  in  his 
chair  patiently  awaiting  their  examination. 

In  time  Mr.  Eustace  returned  them. 

"  I  am  satisfied,  sir  ;  some  of  them  credit  you 
with  great  eminence  in  your  profession." 

"  I   have  done  some  good  work  in  my  time," 


1 86  THE  MAN  WITH  A    THUMB. 

replied  Cathcart  indifferently.  "  If  you  are  satis- 
fied as  to  my  identity,  we  will  proceed." 

Mr.  Eustace  was  evidently  greatly  impressed 
with  his  visitor,  and  yielded  to  him  as  most  men  did. 

"I  apprehend,"  said  Cathcart,  "that  we  will 
make  greater  progress  if  I  submit  my  theory  to  you 
and  try  to  see  whether  we  can  erect  it  into  a  cer- 
tainty. You  will  perceive  in  that  unfinished  letter 
a  direct  reference  is  made  to  a  son.  The  writer 
seems  to  be  borne  down  by  the  fact  that  all  the 
evils  he  has  recited  are  to  be  attributed  to  an  un- 
grateful son.  Now,  inasmuch  as  he  had  but  one 
son,  the  superficial  and  perhaps  natural  supposition 
would  be  that  that  son  was  referred  to.  But  we 
are  immediately  confronted  with  the  fact  that 
nothing  in  the  life  of  the  young  man  can  be  found 
to  justify  the  charges.  Upon  the  contrary,  we  find 
abundant  evidence  that  that  son  was  treated  with 
confidence,  pride,  affection,  and  generosity,  which 
the  son  repaid  with  an  affection  and  attention  quite 
as  strong.  This  certainly  is  contradictory.  But  if 
further  evidence  is  wanted  it  is  to  be  found  in  the 
almost  frantic  endeavors  of  the  young  man  himself 
to  disprove  the  charges — endeavors  ill-directed  and 
ill-advised,  as  might  be  expected  in  a  boy  only 
twenty-three — throwing  himself  open  to  the  most 
rigid  examination,  and,  further,  that  after  having 
brooded  on  these  troubles  for  eight  years,  he  has 
set  the  inquiry  on  foot  again.  Those  who  are 
inclined  to  look  leniently  on  the  young  man,  say  that 
the  elder  Dorison  must  have  been  stricken  with  an 


PIECING  OUT  A   STORY.  187 

insanity  which  was  a  precursor  of  his  death,  or, 
that  if  he  had  been  permitted  to  finish  the  letter  it 
would  have  been  found  that  he  would  have  quali- 
fied the  charges.  Others,  and  by  far  the  majority, 
including  the  long  and  clear-headed  men  of  the 
police,  insist  that  the  charges  are  direct  and  une- 
quivocal. I  disagree  with  all." 

Mr.  Eustace,  who  had  been  sitting  in  his  easy- 
chair,  with  his  elbow  resting  upon  the  arm,  sup- 
porting his  chin,  straightened  up  and  looked  with 
rising  color  upon  the  old  detective. 

"  You  will  notice,"  continued  Cathcart,  taking 
out  the  copy  of  the  unfinished  letter,  "that  in  the 
reference  to  this  son  he  uses  the  term,  'an  ungrate- 
ful son,'  not  my  ungrateful  son,  nor  the  ungrateful 
son  of  my  heart,  or  life,  or  old  age,  as  men  often 
speak.  He  uses  the  indefinite  article,  'an, — " 

"  And  you  reason  there  was  another  son,"  inter- 
rupted Mr.  Eustace,  excitedly. 

"  I  do,"  replied  Cathcart  firmly, — "  an  illegitimate 
son.  Therefore,  believing  that  to  be  so,  and  know- 
ing the  relations  existing  between  you  and  Mr. 
Dorison,  I  am  come  to  know  whether  you  have  any- 
thing in  your  possession — any  knowledge — which 
justifies  such  a  theory  ?  "  ** 

Mr.  Eustace  rose  from 'his  chair  impulsively,  and 
rapidly  walked  up  and  down  the  apartment  with 
long  strides,  evidently  much  agitated. 

"You  are  touching  upon  sacred  confidences," 
said  Mr.  Eustace  finally,  "I  do  not  know — " 

"  One  moment,"   interrupted  the  old  detective 


i88  THE  MAN  WITH  A   THUMB. 

hastily;  "  I  am  not  without  knowledge  that  the  elder 
Dorison  had  some  relation  with  a  woman, — just 
what  it  was  I  do  not  know,  but  his  portrait,  his  seal 
ring,  and  parts  of  letters  written  by  him  were  found 
in  her  apartments.  But  stronger  than  all  is  this : 
For  a  number  of  years,  that  is  to  say  for  twenty-five 
years,  this  woman  occupied  a  house^down  town,  the 
title  to  which  was  vested  in  her  name.  This  property 
was  transferred  to  her  April  22,  1854,  by  Richard 
Basselin,  the  consideration  being  $11,500.  I  find 
among  the  papers  of  the  Dorison  estate  a  voucher, 
a  check  drawn  on  the  Chemical  Bank  for  $11,500, 
in  favor  of  Richard  Basselin,  dated  April  22,  1854, 
signed  by  Reuben  Dorison,  certified  by  the  cashier 
on  that  day,  and  endorsed  by  Richard  Basselin. 
Subsequently  Richard  Basselin  removed  to  Buffalo, 
where  he  died  a  little  more  than  a  year  ago.  You 
perceive  that  a  connection  is  "established.  The 
nature  of  that  connection  is  what  I  now  desire  to 
ascertain." 

Mr.  Eustace  had  stopped  in  front  of  Cathcart  as 
the  latter  talked.  He  asked  suddenly  : 

"  The  name  of  that  woman  ? " 

"  I  prefer  to  follow  my  own  plan  of  inquiry  and 
endeavor  to  elicit  information  before  disclosing  it. 
I  have  no  objection  to  giving  it  and  will  do  so  before 
I  leave.  The  important  thing  is  not  to  satisfy  your 
curiosity  but  to  justify  my  theory." 

Mr.  Eustace  turned  an  irritable  glance  upon  the 
old  man,  sitting  so  calm  and  imperturbable  at  his 
fireside.  He  resumed  his  walk. 


PIECING  OUT  A  STORY.  i&9 

"  I  have  some  information,  no  doubt,  that  will 
assist  you.  What  you  are  telling  me  is  wholly  new. 
The  question  in  my  mind  is  whether  I  should  tell 
that  which  was  given  me  under  the  solemn  seal  of 
secrecy." 

"Have  you  the  right  to  obstruct  the  search  of  a 
young  man  leading  to  the  restoration  of  his  good 
name?  I  appeal  to  you  as  a  man  of  justice.  I 
appeal  also  to  your  recollection  of  Reuben  Dorison, 
and  ask  if  it  were  possible  for  him  to  appear  here 
for  one  moment,  whether  he  would  refuse  you  per- 
mission to  unlock  your  lips,  when  the  doing  of  it 
would  tend  to  remove  the  disgrace  from  a  son  he 
thought  so  much  of,  as  you  have  yourself  testified. 
Finally,  I  say  to  you,  not  in  the  way  of  a  threat, 
but  as  a  simple  statement  of  fact,  that  there  is 
another  phase  of  this  case,  that  sooner  or  later  the 
officers  of  the  law  must  take  hold  of,  where  you  will 
be  summoned  to  tell  all  you  know,  unless  you  evade 
it  by  telling  me  now." 

All  of  this  increased  the  agitation  of  Mr.  Eustace, 
and  he  said :  . 

"The  strongest  appeal  is  the  one  to  my  memory 
of  Reuben  Dorison.  I  think  you  are  right  there." 

He  sat  himself  down  in  his  easy-chair,  and  looked 
into  the  fire  burning  brightly  in  the  grate  a  long 
time. 

Cathcart  sat  silently  by,  but  presenting  a  firm  atti- 
tude of  irresistible  pertinacity  in  his  determination 
to  get  the  story. 

"I  have  a  strang  tale  to  tell,"  finally  began  Mr. 


1QO  THE  MAN  WITH  A    THUMB. 

Eustace,  "and  yet  only  the  outlines  of  it.  When 
Reuben  Dorison  was  a  young  man,  subsequent  to 
his  father's  death,  perhaps  then  twenty-two  or  three 
years  old,  before  he  was  married  to  Mary  Claver- 
ing,  a  distant  relative  of  mine,  he  met  and  fell  in 
love  with  a  beautiful  young  girl,  in  a  rank  of  life 
much  lower  than  his  own.  Where  he  met  her  or 
how,  I  never  learned,  but  her  father  was  a  cos- 
turner  to  one  of  the  theaters  of  that  day,  and  had  a 
shop  in  Chatham  Street.  She  returned  that  love 
and  -they  desired  to  marry.  Her  father,  however, 
for  reasons  he  would  not  give,  refused  his  consent, 
grew  violent  when  it  was  talked  of,  and  finally  put 
her  away  so  effectually  that  Dorison  could  learn 
nothing  of  her.  When  next  he  heard  of  her,  she 
was  married,  and  to  a  man  at  the  command  of  her 
father.  This  story  L  had  from  his  lips.  I  cannot 
recollect  that  I  ever  heard  her  last  name,  or  that  of 
the  man  she  married.  In  speaking  to  her  he  called 
her  Emma.  Dorison's  mother  was  bent  on  his 
marrying  Mary  Clavering,  and  in  time  brought 
about  the  match.  Dorison  must  have  become  rec- 
onciled to  it,"  continued  Mr.  Eustace,  musingly, 
more  to  himself  than  to  Cathcart,  "for  in  those  days 
he  seemed  very  happy,  and  his  home  in  Bleecker 
Street  was  as  pleasant  and  gay  as  any  in  the  city. 
He  was  exceedingly  prosperous  in  business,  and 
the  only  cloud  I  could  see  dimming  his  happiness 
was  the  death  of  four  children,  leaving  him  only 
one,  the  youngest,  a  boy.  In  1851,  Dorison  moved 
from  Bleecker  Street  to  Twenty-third  Street,  and  a 


PIECING  OUT  A    STORY,  I9r 

year  later  his  wife  died,  the  boy  then  being  four  or 
five  years  old." 

Mr.  Eustace  got  up  and  going  to  his  desk  took 
from  a  pigeon-hole  a  little  book.  Turning  over  its 
leaves  he  examined  a  page  of  it  attentively,  and  re- 
turned. 

"I  am  correct  in  my  recollection.  One  after- 
noon, three  years  after  the  death  of  his  wife,  he 
came  to  me  in  deep  distress,  saying  he  must  relieve 
his  feelings  by  talking  with  some  one  he  could  trust. 
He  said  that  two  years  previously  he  had  met  his 
early  love,  and  discovered  that  she  was  a  widow — 
that  her  husband  had  treated  her  ill  all  his  life,  and 
had  several  years  previously  gone  to  another  part 
of  the  country,  contributing  sufficiently  to  her  sup- 
port to  escape  charges  of  abandonment;  that  she 
had  had  advices  of  his  death,  by  letter,  from  one  of 
his  companions  who  had  sent  her  his  private  papers; 
and  that  she  was  childless ;  that  he  found  his  love 
for  her  returned,  and  in  haste  and  without  consider- 
ing consequences  had  married  her.  For  reasons 
which  he  did  not  give  me,  he  said  he  determined  he 
would  not  make  the  marriage  known  until  he  could 
carry  out  successfully  his  retirement  from  business, 
and  permanently  invest  his  property.  So  he  had 
rented  a  house  and  was  providing  for  her  as  a  hus- 
band should,  but  still  keeping  the  fact  of  the  mar- 
riage secret.  He  had  retired  and  was  about  ready 
to  announce  his  second  marriage,  two  children  hav- 
ing been  born  to  them  in  the  meantime,  when  the 
first  husband  presented  himself  alive  and  in  person. 


192  THE  MAN  WITH  A  THUMB. 

Though  Dorison  had  been  compelled  to  pay  heavily 
to  prevent  the  husband  from  making  a  scandal,  from 
prosecuting  his  wife  for  bigamy  and  to  go  his  way 
and  leave  her  in  peace,  the  fact  remained  that  she 
was  not  his  wife,  and  could  not  be  recognized  as 
such.  Though  he  was  the  father  of  her  children, 
he  said  the  woman  insisted  on  an  absolute  severance 
of  their  relations.  She  said  they  had  sinned,  but 
sinned  innocently,  and  that  they  could  repair  their 
wrong  only  by  separation.  He  had  tried  to  combat 
her  resolution,  but  she  was  immovable,  and  he  was 
almost  heartbroken,  saying  his  love  for  her  was 
never  so  great  as  when  she  had  shown  such  nobility 
of  soul;  that  she  should  be  surrounded  by  every 
comfort,  and  that  her  protection  should  be  his  care. 
Again  he  refrained  from  the  mention  of  names,  and 
handing  me  securities  to  the  amount  of  fifty  thous- 
and dollars,  asked  me  to  hypothecate  them  on  a 
long  term." 

"My  theory  is  confirmed,"  said  Cathcart.  "Did 
he  ever  refer  to  it  again?" 

"No,"  replied  Eustace,  "except  once  in  answer 
to  a  question,  when  he  said  that  affairs  had  settled 
into  a  sad  and  quiet  rut  and  he  avoided  thought  of 
it  as  much  as  possible.  Not  long  after  this  affair 
occurred  my  own  financial  troubles,  and  after  they 
had  been  straightened  out,  upon  which  he  labored 
much,  I  went  abroad  in  the  diplomatic  service. 
While  our  warm  friendship  was  never  broken, 
our  confidences,  by  the  fact  of  separation  only, 
ceased," 


PIECING  OUT  A   STORY.  193 

"Um,"  said  the  detective,  "Is  that  all  you  have 
to  say?" 

"No.  One  more  point.  In  1869  I  returned 
from  the  continent  on  a  short  visit,  leaving  my 
family  behind  me.  The  night  before  I  was  to  re- 
turn, Dorison  came  to  me,  begging  to  be  excused 
for  troubling  me  at  such  an  hour  and  time  on  such 
a  matter.  He  said  he  was  in  great  trouble,  the 
causes  of  which  were  too  many  and  involved  too 
long  a  story  in  explanation  to  give  them.  He  had 
with  him  a  small  tin  case  in  which  were  contained 
one  hundred  and  fifty  thousand  dollars  of  govern- 
ment securities,  which  he  said  he  desired  me  to 
retain,  subject  to  his  order,  the  reason  for  which  he 
would  give  me  some  time.  He  had  a  receipt  pre- 
pared simply  reading:  'Received  from  Reuben 
Dorison  government  securities  to  the  amount  of  one 
hundred  and  fifty  thousand  dollars,'  which  he  asked 
me  to  sign,  and  I  did.  'I  am  preparing,'  he  said, 
'for  a  storm.  You  know  the  unfortunate  affair  I 
became  involved  in.  This  is  intended  to  be  some 
reparation  to  the  children  whose  paternity  I  am 
compelled  to  deny — one  child  perhaps  it  were  bet- 
ter to  say.  In  view  of  the  fact  that  Emma's  first 
husband  is  yet  alive  and  makes  demands  on  her,  I 
don't  think  it  wise  to  hand  them  to  her  yet.  In 
view  of  certain  demands  on  me,  of  matters  occur- 
ring and  likely  to  occur  in  the  future,  they  were 
better  out  of  my  hands.  I  can  think  of  no  better 
place  than  to  put  them  in  the  hands  of  a  friend  I 
trust  as  I  do  you.  A  demand  will  be  made  upon 


194  THE  MAN  WITH  A    THUMB. 

you,  sometime.  When  it  is,  yield  them  up  only  on 
the  presentation  of  this  paper.'  He  showed  me  a 
paper  written  in  red  ink,  the  edges  of  which  were 
notched.  'Here,'  he  continued,  'is  another  piece 
of  paper,  blank,  which  fits  into  these  notches.'  I 
fitted  them  and  saw  they  compared.  He  went 
away.  I  never  saw  him  after,  and  I  yet  have  the 
piece  of  blank  notched  paper  in  my  safe.  The 
bonds  are  in  my  possession,  swollen  by  interest  and 
compound  interest  to  nearly  a  quarter  of  a  million 
of  dollars,  and  no  demand  has  yet  been  made  for 
them." 

"And  never  will  be,"  said  Cathcart  positively. 


CHAPTER  XVIII. 

THE    STORY    PIECED    OUT. 

MR.  EUSTACE  was  evidently  much  astonished 
and  impressed  by  the  positive  tone  of  the 
old  detective. 

"Why?     What  do  you  know?" 

The  old  man  ignored  the  question,  but  asked 
another: 

"Did  you  never  hear  anything  more  on  the 
subject?" 

"Yes.  A  year  later,  in  a  letter  to  me  at  Paris, 
Dorison  said  that  he  did  not  know  but  events  were 
shaping  themselves  so  that  he  himself  would  be 
compelled  to  demand  a  return  of  these  securities, 
but  I  never  heard  more  from  him  on  the  subject." 

"I  am  inclined  to  believe,"  said  Cathcart,  after 
some  moments  of  thought,  "that  that  unfinished 
letter  was  intended  to  be  addressed  to  you?" 

"To  me?     Can  you  mean  it?" 

"Yes,  I  do,  and  the  more  I  think  of  it  the  more 
confirmed  I  am.  See !  He  gave  those  bonds  in 
trust  for  a  person  whom  he  protected  by  not  hand- 
ing them  to  her,  but  to  you.  The  necessity  for  her 
possession  of  them  did  not  arise  during  his  life.  If 
he  were  to  approach  death,  then  he  meant  to  give  the 
order  to  her,  but  he  was  carried  off  without  a 


196  THE  MAN  WITH  A    THUMB, 

moment's  warning.  But  that  is  not  my  direction. 
He  knew  they  were  in  your  hands,  recoverable  by 
him  at  any  time.  He  intimated  in  one  letter  to  you 
that  he  might  be  compelled  to  demand  possession 
of  them  himself.  What  is  that  letter  you  have  read 
but  an  explanation  of  the  reasons  why  he  wanted 
them?  Had  he  been  permitted  to  finish  that  letter, 
he  would  have  wound  up  with  a  demand  for  their 
return,  and  for  further  assistance  from  you." 

"And  he  should  have  had  it,"  said  Mr.  Eustace 
fervently.  "I  owe  everything  to  him.". 

"I  see  it  clearly  now.  He  had  hypothecated  all 
of  his  securties.  They  were  in  danger  of  lapsing. 
He  wanted  the  proceeds  of  these  bonds  and  your 
assistance  to  redeem  them.  His  real  estate  was 
mortgaged  to  its  full  value;  his  other  means  were 
exhausted,  and  so,  without  the  aid  of  those  bonds  and 
your  assistance,  he  could  not  redeem  the  pledged 
securities.  By  his  sudden  death  they  did  lapse  into 
the  hands  of  those  who  had  advanced  him  money." 

"But  what  did  he  do  with  all  the  money  he 
raised?"  asked  Mr.  Eustace,  bewildered  and 
astonished. 

"He  tells  you  in  that  unfinished  letter.  You  ask 
me  how  I  know  no  demand  will  ever  be  made  upon 
you.  I  will  tell  you,  and  in  doing  so  will  piece  out 
the  tale  you  told  me.  First,  there  is  no  one  to 
make  the  demand.  They  are  dead.  The  woman 
Mr.  Dorison  married  only  to  find  she  could  not  be 
his  wife,  was  Mrs.  Emma  Parish,  living  at  No. — 
East  Sixteenth  Street;  the  two  children  of  which 


THE  STORY  PIECED  OUT.  197 

Mr.  Dorison  was  the  father  were  a  boy  and  a  girl. 
The  girl's  name  was  Anne ;  the  boy's  name  I  believe 
to  have  been  Harold, — of  that  I  am  not  quite 
certain." 

"How  long  have  you  known  this?"  asked  Mr. 
Eustace,  in  open  astonishment. 

"Since  you  told  me  your  tale." 

"I  cannot  comprehend." 

"Possibly  not.  I  have  been  studying,  searching, 
delving,  dreaming  and  working  on  this  case  for  two 
months,  and  I  have  only  just  comprehended  it." 

"Then  these  bonds  which  Dorison  intended  for 
this  woman,  should,  if  her  identity  be  established, 
go  to  her?" 

"That  is  impossible." 

"Why,  indeed?" 

"She  is  dead;  so  is  her  daughter." 

"Oh." 

"Have  you  forgotten  the  Farish  murder?" 

"Great  heavens!  Are  those  the  people — were 
they  the  victims  of  that  horrible  butchery?" 

"The  same.  Now  see  how  marvelously  the 
affairs  of  this  life  are  adjusted.  I  am  employed  by 
the  younger  Dorison  to  endeavor  to  explain  the 
riddle  of  that  letter,  which  has  covered  him  with 
disgrace.  These  murders  are  committed,  and  I  am 
solicited  by  the  police  authorities  to  hunt  the 
murderer  or  murderers  down.  I  have  two  cases 
on  my  hands  as  widely  separated,  you  would  say,  as 
they  well  could  be.  I  take  my  first  step.  In  the 
room  where  the  daughter  is  killed  a  portrait  of  Mr. 


I98  THE  MAN  WITH  A    THUMB. 

Dorison  and  his  seal  ring  are  found,  and  in  one  of 
the  hands  of  the  murdered  girl  a  scrap  of  paper  torn 
from  a  letter;  another  on  the  floor.  They  are 
both  in  the  handwriting  of  the  elder  Dorison.  My 
first  determination  is  what?  Why,  I  have  not  two 
cases  on  hand  but  one — to  reveal  the  mystery  of  one 
is  to  reveal  the  mystery  of  the  other.  How  shall  you 
account  for  these  things?  A  man  in  a  Western 
city  sets  me  at  work  in  New  York  in  a  case  concern- 
ing him  alone,  and  coming  here  with  some  reputa- 
tion, the  police  employ  me  on  the  murder,  and  lo ! 
they  are  in  effect  the  same  case." 

"The  ways  of  Providence  are  past  finding  out," 
said  Mr.  Eustace  solemnly,  aghast  at  the  informa- 
tion forced  upon  him.  "But  where  is  the  son?" 
he  asked,  suddenly  and  eagerly. 

"I  don't  know,"  replied  Cathcart.  "He  disap- 
peared from  his  home  when  about  eighteen,  and,  I 
should  say,  mysteriously." 

"Oh!"  said  Mr.  Eustace,  cast  into  profound 
thought  by  the  answer. 

"I  am  quite  certain,"  said  Cathcart,  "that  those 

murders  had  their  origin  in  an  endeavor 

Phew—" 

The  old  man  leaped  to  his  feet  with  a  long,  low 
whistle,  and  thrusting  his  hands  into  his  vest-pockets, 
began  treading  the  floor  rapidly,  saying  to  himself, 
"Let  me  think!  Let  me  think!  Ho,  ho!  let  me 
think!  Ho,  ho!  let  me  think  !" 

Mr.  Eustace,  startled  by  the  abruptness  of 
Cathcart,  began  to  ask  him  questions,  but  the  old 


THE  STORY  PIECED  OUT.  1 99 

detective  \vaved  him  to  silence  with  an  imperious 
gesture.  Thus  he  continued  to  tramp  for  fully  ten 
minutes.  Then  he  resumed  his  seat. 

"Now  listen,"  he  said,  bending  forward  earnestly. 
"Inquiry  has  determined  that  the  murders  were  not 
committed  for  the  sake  of  robbery,  that  is,  for  the 
sake  of  obtaining  jewels  and  money,  but  in  order 
to  obtain  possession  of  certain  documents.  It  is 
clear,  apparently,  that  among  those  desired  docu- 
ments were  letters  from  Dorison,  since  we  have 
fragments  torn  from  them  in  a  struggle  which  pre- 
ceded the  murder  of  the  daughter.  But  this  mur- 
der of  the  daughter,  from  whom  those  letters  were 
wrested,  did  not  yield  what  was  wanted,  and  so  the 
mother  was  killed  and  something  torn  from  her 
breast,  where  she  had  concealed  it.  What  was 
desired?  The  order  for  the  bonds  of  one  hundred 
and  fifty  thousand  dollars  in  your  hands,  the  exist- 
ence of  which  the  murderer  had  knowledge  of,  and 
of  the  way  to  obtain  them?  And  as  Dorison  talks 
of  defalcations  and  forgeries  committed  by  a  son, 
were  evidences  of  those  forgeries,  existence  of  which 
were  a  menace  to  the  wrong-doer,  in  possession  of 
the  woman?  Were  these  the  things  wanted?" 

"  And  was  the  son  who  so  mysteriously  disap- 
peared, and  who  was  charged  with  these  crimes, 
the  murdere/  ? "  shouted  Mr.  Eustace,  excited  and 
losing  his  habitual  control. 

"  Eh,  eh,  eh,  eh  !  "  cried  Cathcart  with  eager 
exclamations,  as  if  he  were  urging  on  the  chase 
after  an  idea. 


THE  MAN  WITH  A   THUM&. 

"  It  must  be  so  !  "  cried  Mr.  Eustace.  "  It  must 
be  so  !  " 

"  Softly,  softly  !  "  said  the  old  detective,  putting 
a  curb  upon  himself.  "  There  are  other  things. 
There  was  a  glove — By  Heaven  !  "  he  almost 
shouted,  as  he  again  leaped  to  his  feet  with  his 
hands  in  his  vest-pockets,  repeating  his  tramping 
up  and  down.  "Oh,  my  heavens  !  this  will  never  do. 
Could  he  have  known  of  these  bonds  and  wanted  to 
get  the  people  out  of  the  way  so  he  could  seize 
them — " 

He  turned  short  upon  Mr.  Eustace,  who  was 
staring  at  him,  unable  to  follow  his  words  under- 
standingly. 

"  Have  you  ever  told  any  one  you  had  these 
bonds? " 

"  Never  a  soul." 

"  Are  you  certain  ?  This  question  means  a  great 
deal." 

"  No  one  knows  that  I  hold  the  bonds  given  me 
by  Reuben  Dorison,  except  you." 

"  You  have  never  written  about  them  or  made  a 
memorandum  likely  to  come  to  the  eyes  of  another 
person  ? " 

"  No.  I  wrote  a  statement  of  how  they  came 
into  my  hands,  with  instructions  that  they  must  be 
held  by  my  executors  subject  to  the  order  spoken 
of  by  Dorison,  but  that  statement  was  by  me  placed 
with  my  will  as  soon  as  completed  and  under  seal 
immediately.  The  »eal  has  never  been  broken." 

"  I  hope  not.     I  hope  not,"  said  Cathcart. 


TffE  STORY  PIECED  OUT.  261 

"  What  is  this  that  excites  you  now  ?  " 

"  Nothing  that  I  can  tell  you  until  I  know  more. 
If  I  were  to  speak  now  I  might  heedlessly  do  a 
great  wrong.  Good-afternoon.  You  will  hear 
from  me  again." 

"  Stop  one  moment,  Mr.  Cathcart,"  cried  Mr. 
Eustace.  "  There  is  a  point  I  have  been  trying  to 
speak  of  for  sonle  time." 

"  Ah  !  What  is  that  ?  "  said  Cathcart,  coming 
back  to  the  fireplace. 

"  Some  time  ago  my  daughter  was  nearly  run  over 
on  Broadway  and  was  saved  by  a  young  gentleman, 
who  acted  exceedingly  well  in  the  matter.  I  called 
upon  him  to  make  my  acknowledgments  of  his  ser- 
vice, and  was  startled  by  his  extraordinary  resem- 
blance to  Dorison  when  he  was  of  the  age  the 
young  man  is  now." 

"  Ah  !  "  said  Cathcart  aloud,  but  to  himself  he 
added,  "  our  young  friend  enters." 

"  He  denied  relationship  to  Dorison  when  I  spoke 
of  it.  I  have  met  him  several  times  since,  and 
indeed  have  entertained  him  at  dinner,  for  he  and 
my  son  have  become  quite  intimate.  At  this  dinner 
I  referred  to  this  resemblance  again,  and  I  saw  that 
he  was  making  efforts  to  evade  the  conversation,  in 
fact,  everything  leading  to  a  discussion  of  his  ante- 
cedents. Suddenly  the  idea  occurred  to  me  that 
this  young  man  might  be  one  of  Dorison's  illegiti- 
mate children.  He  gives  his  name  as  Dudley." 

"Ah!"  said  Cathcart  gravely.  "I  will  look 
into  this." 


202  THE  MAN  WITH  A    T1IUUD. 

"  You  will  have  no  difficulty  in  finding  him.  He 
moves  about  a  good  deal.  His  apartments  are  in 
Twenty-ninth  Street." 

"What  number!"  asked  Cathcart,  with  an  in- 
terested expression  in  his  face. 

"I  have  forgotten,  but  will  send  it  you,  after 
obtaining  it  from  my  son." 

"That  is  unnecessary.  What  streets  is  it  be- 
tween?" 

"Broadway  and  Fifth  Avenue." 

"That  is  all  that  is  necessary." 

"So  satisfied  was  I  that  this  young  man  was  play^ 
ing  a  part,  that  I  strenuously  objected  to  his  being 
received  here  as  a  friend  of  the  house  longer,  and 
tried  to  prevent  his  acting  as  an  escort  to  one  of  my 
daughters  to  a  theater  party  my  son  gave.  But  as 
that  would  have  necessitated  the  withdrawal  of 
invitations,  I  yielded  in  this  instance,  upon  the 
understanding  that  he  was  not  to  be  encouraged 
further." 

"That  was  proper — very  proper.  Did  you  give 
your  reasons?" 

"No;  I  could  not,  without  telling  more  than  I 
would." 

"I  see.  You  have  had  trouble  with  a  man  Lang- 
don,  have  you  not?" 

"Well,  we  have  been  annoyed  by  a  man  of  that 
name." 

"Very  true!  Seriously  annoyed.  Annoyed  by 
his  forced  attentions  to  one  of  your  daughters." 

"Upon  my  word,   Mr.  Cathcart,  I   hardly  know 


THE  STORY  PIECED  OUT.  '203 

which  to  admire  .^ost — the  directness  of  your 
speech  or  the  scope  of  your  information." 

"Don't  be  annoyed,  sir.  I  mean  only  to  do  you 
a  service.  The  fellow  is  a  scamp.  He  is  married. 
He  has  a  wife.  Any  time  you  want  me  to  convince 
your  daughter  of  that  I  will  do  it,  so  there  will  be 
no  question  concerning  it." 

Leaving  Mr.  Eustace  dumfounded  by  his  knowl- 
edge of  what  was  supposed  to  be  a  family  secret, 
and  yet  appreciative  of  the  value  of  the  service 
proffered,  Cathcart  caught  his  hat  and  moved 
quickly  to  the  door. 

He  was  back  again  in  a  moment. 

"I  take  it,  Mr.  Eustace,  you  see  the  necessity  of 
keeping  these  developments  of  to-day  strictly  a 
secret,  not  to  be  talked  about.  Devotion  to  the 
memory  of  your  dead  friend  would  demand  this,  even 
if  justice  did  not." 

"I  think  I  understand  my  position,"  said  Mr. 
Eustace,  loftily. 

This  time  the  old  detective  slipped  out  of  the 
door  and  was  gone,  leaving  Mr.  Eustace  agitated 
and  excited,  feeling  very  much  as  if  he  had  been 
caught  up  in  a  whirlwind,  and  after  many  confus- 
ing gyrations,  set  down  where  he  had  been  taken  up. 


CHAPTER  XIX. 

EUSTACE    IN    THE    TOILS. 

LEAVING  the  Eustace  mansion,  the  old  detec- 
tive walked  hastily  to  Broadway,  where  he  hailed 
a  cab  and  ordered  that  he  be  driven  rapidly  to 
Twenty-ninth  Street,  to  Dorison's  apartments. 
Here  he  handed  a  note  to  the  janitor,  requesting 
that  it  be  delivered  at  once  to  Mr.  Dudley. 

From  thence  he  was  driven  to  his  own  apartments 
in  Bond  Street,  where  he  dismissed  the  cab. 

A  moment  later  a  man  with  a  black  beard  and 
bushy  black  hair  left  the  house.  Had  he  been  fol- 
lowed, it  would  have  been  found  that  he  made  his 
way  straight  to  Police  Headquarters  and  into  the 
office  of  Captain  Lawton. 

Ten  minutes  after  the  officer,  who  was  now  con- 
stantly in  attendance  upon  Cathcart,  left  the  house 
and  hurried  to  Broadway. 

In  the  meam  time  Dudley  had  received  Cathcart's 
note  and  read  it.  It  ran  : 

"It  is  as  plain  as  a  pikestaff.  There  was  another 
son.  I  have  it  all  in  my  hands.  Come  and  see  me 
this  evening." 

"Is  the  old  man  drunk  or  has  he  gone  crazy?" 
exclaimed  Dorison,  bewildered,  as  he  read  the 
204 


EUSTACE  IX  THE   TOILS.  205 

words:  "What  is  as  plain  as  a  pikestaff?  If  there 
was  another  son  who  was  his  father?  What  is  the 
old  imbecile  talking  about?" 

After  a  vain  endeavor  to  arrive  at  a  meaning  of 
the  strange  epistle,  and  gathering  as  the  only  intel- 
ligence that  the  old  detective  desired  to  see  him  in 
the  evening,  he  resumed  his  reading  the  delivery  of 
the  note  had  interrupted. 

From  this  occupation,  three  hours  later,  he  was 
aroused  by  the  entrance  of  young  Eustace,  who, 
throwing  his  hat  lightly  upon  a  table  and  drawing 
off  his  gloves,  walked  up  to  where  Dorison  was 
seated. 

"Look  at  me,"  he  said.  "Gaze  upon  me  with 
thine  eagle  eye." 

Dorison  perceived  that-  Eustace  was  not  a  little 
excited  and  irritated.  He  looked  at  him  inquiringly 
without  rising. 

"Please  get  up,"  continued  Eustace,  "and 
examine  my  bump  of  combativeness  and  destruc- 
tiveness  and  see  whether  they  are  abnormally 
developed.  Look  at  the  top  of  my  head  and  see 
whether  there  is  a  general  depression  where  the 
moral  faculties  should  lift  it  dome  like.  Peer  into 
my  eyes  and  observe  whether  they  emit  baleful 
gleams.  Consider  my  jaw  and  determine  whether 
it  is  square,  angular,  and  cruel.  Are  my  lips  thin  ? 
Do  I  smile  a  spasmodic  smile,  mirthless  and  mechan- 
ical? And  when  I  do  smile  does  my  mustache  go 
up  and  my  nose  come  down?  Answer  me,  most 
potent  and  grave,  would  you  from  an  hyndred 


206  THE  MAN  WITH  A   THUMB. 

men,  good  and  true,  pick  me  out  for  a  butcherous 
murderer?" 

Dorison's  heart  gave  a  great  leap  into  his  throat, 
and  falling  back  pounded  at  his  ribs.  It  was  only 
by  a  supreme  effort  he  could  control  himself  and 
reply  as  he  desired. 

"What  do  you  mean  by -such  rodomontade?" 
he  asked,  assuming  a  vexed  pleasantry. 

"Mean?"  replied  Eustace  severely.  "I  mean 
the  distinguished  honor  has  been  done  your  friend, 
by  the  intelligent  police  of  our  city,  of  entertaining 
the  idea  of  the  possibility  of  his  having  committed 
the  Farish  murders." 

"For  Heaven's  sake!"  cried  Dorison,  seriously 
alarmed  and  much  agitated.  "What  can  you 
mean?  Tell  me." 

"I  hardly  know  whether  to  be  mad  as  blazes  or 
to  laugh  consumedly, ' '  replied  Eustace,  drawing  a 
chair  in  front  of  Dorison  and  seating  himself. 
"Here  is  the  woful  tale.  This  afternoon  about 
three  o'clock  I  was  sailing  down  Fifth  Avenue,  in 
all  the  pride  of  my  pomp  and  power,  felicitating 
myself  upon  the  havoc  I  was  making  in  all  the 
female  hearts  I  met,  when  a  man,  with  a  high, 
long  thin  nose,  between  two  ferret-like  eyes,  stepped 
up  to  me,  with  smooth,  catlike  movements,  and 
said: 

'  'Mr.  Charles  Eustace,  I  believe.' 

"Assuring  him,  with  that  distinguished  grace 
which  is  so  peculiarly  my  own,  that  the  expression 
of  his  belief  did  not  do  injustice  to  the  fact,  with 


EUSTACE  IN  THE   TOILS.  207 

less  elegance  than  precision  of  speech,  he  informed 
me  'I  was  wanted.' ' 

"Not  at  that  time  having  had  the  inestimable 
privilege  of  association  with  those  gentlemen  who, 
for  a  yearly  consideration,  undertake  to  guard  our 
persons  and  possessions  and  to  protect  our  morals  I 
enjoyed  later,  I  was  unacquainted  with  the  peculiar 
meaning  they  attach  to  simple  words  of  our  language, 
and  so  I  said,  'What?'  my  tone  being  a  happy  blend- 
ing of  surprise  and  perplexity." 
;  'You're  wanted,'  he  repeated. 

"'My  friend,'  I  remarked  sweetly,  'there  is  a 
charming  insufficiency  in  your  information.  By 
whom  am  I  wanted  and  what  for?' 

1  'They    want    you   at     Police    Headquarters,' 
replied  the  mysterious  one. 

"  'Who  wants  me  at  Police  Headquarters," 
asked  I. 

"  'Captain  Lawton,  the  head  detective,'  he  replied 
with  a  grin. 

"  'For  Heaven's  sake,'  I  cried,  as  light  broke 
upon  me,  '  what  have  I  been  doing  ? ' 

"  'Blest  if  I  know,  if  you  don't,'  replied  he  of 
the  grin.  *  They  want  you  at  once.  They  sent 
me  to  take  you.' 

"  'I'm  taken  then,  am  I  ?'  I  asked. 

"  'You  be,'  he  replied  briefly,  but  positively  and 
ungramatically. 

"'Are  you  bound  to  carry  me?'  I  inquired 
innocently. 


208  THE  MAN  WITH  A    THUMB. 

"  '  Not  if  you  will  ride  in  the  street-car,'  replied 
he  of  the  grin. 

"  '  Then  lead  on,  I'll  follow.'  " 

"  For  heaven's  sake  !  "  broke  in  Dorison,  "  Get 
on  to  something  important.  You  torture  me." 

"Do  not  interfere  with  my  recital,"  replied  Eus- 
tace. "  I  am  giving  this  wondrous  tale  in  my  best 
realistic  vein.  Well,  to  pursue.  We  entered  the 
street-car,  and  as  we  were  borne  rapidly  over  the 
bounding  pavement — note  the  neatness  of  that — I 
devoted  myself  to  a  review  of  the  evil  deeds  of  my 
life.  It  is  astonishing  how  pure  and  harmless  that 
life  appeared  when  put  to  the  test  of  a  calm  review 
in  a  street-car  on  the  way  to  Police  Headquarters. 
I  pledge  you  my  word  the  only  crime  I  could  hon- 
estly charge  up  against  myself,  was  the  surrepti- 
tious and  felonious  purloining  of  a  vagrant  peanut 
from  the  stall  of  a  child  of  sunny  Italy,  who  took 
his  pay  in  hurling  maledictions  after  me  in  choice 
Tuscan." 

"  Oh,  do  not  delay  so  !  "  cried  Dorison,  burning 
with  impatience  and  most  eager  for  the  outcome. 

"  Well,  then,  if  you  are  not  satisfied  to  listen  to 
a  minute  analysis  of  my  emotions,  I  will  say  that 
in  due  course  of  time  we  arrived  at  the  Palace  of 
Public  Protection  in  Mulberry  Street,  where,  with 
great  eclat  and  pomp,  I  was  ushered  into  a  luxuri- 
ously-furnished apartment  by  my  taking  guide,  who 
immediately  disappeared.  In  a  moment  I  found  I 
was  in  the  presence  of  two  persons.  One— a  rather 
fine-looking  man,  who  sat  in  a  chair  at  a  desk, 


EUSTACE  IN  THE    TOILS.  209 

regarding  me  austerely  ;  the  other — a  middle-aged, 
stout  gentleman  of  medium  height,  with  black 
beard  and  bushy  black  hair,  whom  I  recollect  to 
have  seen  dining  in  the  Hoffman  House  cafe  the 
night  I  had  the  honor  of  first  making  your  acquain- 
tance." 

"  Cathcart  in  disguise,"  muttered  Dorison,  under 
his  breath. 

"  On  that  night  he  attracted  my  attention  by 
reason  of  his  keeping  his  black,  beady  eyes  upon 
me  during  the  whole  dinner,  the  reason  whereof 
was  made  plain  to  me  in  the  subsequent  proceed- 
ings. 

" '  Good  afternoon,  Mr.  Eustace,'  said  the  gen- 
tleman at  the  desk. 

" '  Good  afternoon,'  I  returned  courteously, 
adding,  '  I  am  here  because  of  a  pressing  invita- 
tion to  call  on  Captain  Lawton — I  presume  you  are 
Captain  Lawton.  I  am  at  loss  for  its  reason,  for  I 
can  confess  to  but  one  crime,  after  a  careful  review 
of  my  life,  and  that  is  the  felonious  theft  of  a  pea- 
nut yesterday  morning.  I  would  make  restitution, 
but  the  sad  fact  is,  and  I  freely  confess  it,  I  have 
eaten  it.' 

"  The  Captain,  with  just  the  soupfon  of  a  merry 
twinkle  in  his  eye,  replied  : 

"  '  Perhaps  when  the  business  upon  which  you  are 
brought  here  is  made  known,  you  will  not  show 
such  levity.' 

"  Receiving  this  rebuke  as  best  I  could,  I  pulled 
myself  into  a  corresponding  serious  expression  and 


210  THE  MAN  WITH  A   THUMB. 

calmly  awaited  developments,  taking  a  chair  unin- 
vited in  the  mean  time,  and  assuming  one  of  my 
favorite  poses  of  grace  and  elegance. 

"  Reaching  forward  over  his  desk,  the  Captain 
removed  a  newspaper  and  took  in  his  hand  a  plate 
with  glass  over  it.  Under  the  glass  seemed  to  be  a 
cheap  fan,  and  on  the  fan  something  I  could  not  in 
•the  light  then  make  out.  He  handed  it  to  me, 
saying  : 

"  '  Do  you  recognize  that  ? ' 

"  Imagine  my  surprise  when  I  found  carefully 
preserved  under  that  glass  one  of  my  own  gloves. 
I  was  so  astonished  I  could  not  reply  for  a  moment, 
and  the  while  as  I  looked  at  it,  both  these  kindly 
gentlemen  bored  holes  into  my  face  with  their 
sharp  eyes. 

"  '  That,  I  take,'  said  I,  when  I  could  recover 
from  my  astonishment, *  to  be  one  of  my  own  gloves. 
I  am  aware  that  it  is  not  a  common  glove — that 
there  is  a  peculiar  elegance  about  it,  rarely  achieved 
— but  why  the  eminent  Captain  Lawton  should  pre- 
serve it  so  carefully  under  a  glass,  and  a  bell  glass 
at  that,  I  am  at  a  loss  to  determine.' 

"  '  You  are  very  frank,'  sternly  said  the  Captain. 
4  Do  you  know  where  that  was  found  ? ' 

"  '  I  do  not,'  I  replied  as  calmly  as  I  could,  but  in 
reality  trembling  in  the  most  minute  fiber  of  my 
body,  while  visions  of  wrathful  and  murderously- 
inclined  husbands  and  lovers  swarmed  upon  me, 
and  the  suspicion  that  Mr.  Blackbeard  was  one  of 
them,  presented  horrible  consequences. 


EUSTACE  IN  THE   TOILS.  21 1 

"  '  Near  to,'  said  the  Captain  impressively,  '  and 
under  the  murdered  body  of  Mrs.  Parish.' 

"  '  Oh  dear,'  I  ejaculated  weakly,  for  I  was  unable 
to  recall  the  lady.  '  How  did  you  get  it  there  ? 
Who  did  you  say  ? ' 

"  '  Mrs.  Parish.' 

"  '  Madame  Delamour,'  grunted  Mr.  Blackbeard. 

"  '  Oh,  the  costumer,'  I  cried,  my  wits  in  opera- 
tion under  the  suggestion. 

"  '  Ah,  you  do  know  her  then,'  said  the  Captain. 
'  Now,  how  did  that  happen  to  be  there  ? ' 

"  '  Upon  my  word,  I  don't  know,'  I  replied,  inno- 
cently but  truthfully,  '  unless  I  dropped  it  on  the 
floor  the  night  I  called  upon  her.' 

"  '  You  did  call  upon  her,  did  you  ? '  said  the 
Captain  eagerly.  '  Now,  be  very  careful  in  what 
you  say.' 

"  A  little  astonished,  I  said  in  return  : 

"  '  Perhaps  you  will  kindly  tell  me  what  you  two 
amiable  gentlemen  are  driving  at  ? ' 

" '  Mrs.  Parish  was  murdered,'  answered  the 
Captain,  with  owlish  solemnity.  '  Her  body  was 
found  ten  or  twelve  hours  after  the  deed  was  done. 
Upon  the  floor  near  the  body  was  found  this  glove. 
Since  inquiry  has  determined  that  Mrs.  Parish 
received  only  one  male  visitor,  it  became  necessary 
to  find  out  to  whom  this  glove  belonged.  It  was 
found  to  be  yours.  With  this  explanation,  perhaps 
you  can  see  that  it  became  necessary  for  us  to  send 
for  you,  to  explain  its  presence  at  that  place  at 
that  time  ? ' 


212  THE  MAN  WITH  A    THUMB. 

"  To  say  I  was  taken  aback  is  perhaps  unneces- 
sary. For  a  moment  I  was  stunned.  I  failed 
utterly  to  perceive  the  humor  of  the  situation. 

"  '  And  you  suppose  I  committed  that  murder,'  I 
blurted  out. 

"  '  We  charge  nothing.  We  give  you  an  oppor- 
tunity to  explain  the  presence  of  that  glove  at  that 
pla'ce  at  that  particular  time.' 

"  The  wild  absurdity  of  the  idea  finally  broke 
upon  me,  and  I  '  larfed  a  larf '  of  blended  mirth, 
contempt,  and  annoyance. 

"  '  Gentlemen,'  I  said,  '  you  will  be  compelled  to 
call  in  your  dogs  and  send  them  on  another  scent. 
Tell  me,  when  did  this  murder  occur  ? ' 

"  '  On  the  fifth  day  of  last  October,'  replied  the 
Captain. 

"  I  took  from  my  pocket  my  memorandum-book, 
and  turning  to  the  page  of  that  date  I  said  : 

" '  Yes,  I  called  upon  Mrs.  Parish  at  No. 

East  Sixteenth  Street  on  the  night  of  that  day. 
However,  she  was  alive  and  well  when  I  went  there, 
and  she  was  alive  and  well  when  I  left  her.' 

"  The  two  gentlemen  exchanged  looks  after  this 
crushing  blow,  and  appeared  to  be  somewhat  mixed, 
so  to  speak.  I  politely  and  magnanimously  waited 
for  them  to  recover  from  the  effects  of  the 
blow. 

'"What  was  your  business  there?'  asked  Mr. 
Blackbeard. 

"  '  Charity,'  I  promptly  replied — '  charity  on  both 
ends.  I  went  to  see  her  about  costumes.' 


EUSTACE  IN  THE   TOILS.  213 

"  '  But  that  was  not  her  place  of  business,'  per- 
sisted Mr.  Blackbeard. 

"  '  True,'  I  replied,  '  but  if  you  will  bear  with  me 
I  will  tell  in  detail  how  I  came  to  go  there.  Last 
October  Mrs.  Bushnell,  a  lady  of  charitable  incli- 
nations, was  interested  in  an  uptown  hospital,  for  the 
aid  of  which  an  entertainment,  of  which  tableaux 
were  to  be  a  feature,  was  proposed.  As  I  had  had 
some  experience  in  those  things,  I  was  asked  to 
take  charge.  In  the  management  of  this  affair  I 
called  upon  Mr.  Newton,  a  real  estate  broker,  to 
ask  that  his  daughter  might  participate.  During 
our  conversation  he  asked  if  I  had  engaged  cos- 
tumes, and  learning  I  had  not,. said  he  was  greatly 
interested  in  a  person  who  had  just  rented  apart- 
ments in  a  house  in  Bleecker  Street^  of  which  he 
had  charge,  in  which  to  conduct  a  costumer's  busi- 
ness. He  imagined,  he  said,  she  was  in  want  of 
assistance  in  starting.  And,  if  I  could  do  as  well 
with  her,  he  would  like  me  to  see  her  and  give  her 
the  business.  But,  he  added,  that  he  did  not 
believe  she  was  fairly  open  for  business  yet,  and 
that,  though  Madame  Delamour  was  her  business 

name,  I  could  find  jier  as  Mrs.  Parish  at  No. 

East  Sixteenth  Street.  Willing  to  oblige  him,  I 
went  that  evening  to  see  her.  I  did  not  do  any 
business  with  her,  however,  for  finding  out  what  I 
wanted  and  how  soon,  she  thought  her  business 
was  not  far  enough  advanced  to  undertake  so  large 
an  order  to  be  filled  in  so  short  a  time.  So  1  left 
her,  and,  as  it  appears,  my  glove  also.' 


214  THE  MAN  WITH  A    THUMB. 

"  'Had  you  ever  known  her  before  ? '  asked  Mr. 
Blackbeard. 

"  'No,  sir,'  I  replied,  as  respectfully  as  two  peas. 

"  'Never  had  heard  of  her  ? '  he  persisted. 

"  'Never  knew  such  a  person  existed  until  Mr. 
Newton  talked  of  her,'  I  replied. 

"  'Did  you  not  read   of  her  being  murdered," 
again  asked  Mr.  Blackbeard. 
'  'Oh  yes,'  was  my  reply. 

"  'Why  didn't  you  speak  of  it  then?'  he  de- 
manded. 

'  'I  did  in  my  family,'  I  answered. 

"  'To  your  father,'  he  suggested. 

"  'Perhaps.  I  spoke  of  it  at  the  table,  but 
whether  my  father  was  present  or  not  I  do  not  recol- 
lect. My  talk  was  with  my  mother  and  sisters?' 

"  'Um,'  grunted  Mr.  Blackbeard.  'Why  didn't 
you  speak  to  the  authorities  about  it?' 

" 'Why  should  I?'  asked  I  in  return.  'Icouldn't 
contribute  anything  to  the  general  or  special  informa- 
tion, and  my  name  was  not  mentioned  in  connection 
with  the  affair.' 

"  'You  had  lost  your  glove  there,'  persisted  Mr. 
Blackbeard!  'Were  you  not  afraid  you  would  be 
charged  with  the  murder?' 

"  'In  the  first  place!'  I  returned,  'I  did  not  know 
I  had  lost  a  glove  there.  In  the  second  place,  not 
being  engaged  in  murder  as  a  fine  art,  or  as  a  trade, 
it  did  not  occur  to  me  that  any  one  would  charge 
me  with  it.' 

"That  delicate  and  entirely  ingenious  reference 


EUSTACE  IN  THE   TOILS.  215 

to  De  Quincy  was  a  settler  for  Mr.   Blackbeard. 
The  Captain  came  at  me  then : 

"  'You  have  studied  surgery,  haven't  you?' 
'  'Well,  I    have   pretended  to' — thus   me,  most 
modestly. 

"  'Mrs.  Parish  was  killed  by  one  who  knew  how  to 
reach  the  carotid  artery  with  a  lancet  and  with  great 
precision,'  he  suggested,  and  I  thought  maliciously. 

"  'I  never  reached  a  carotid  artery  with  a  lancet 
or  precision,  or  with  any  other  kind  of  an  instru- 
ment.' 

"That  brilliant  witticism  was  lost  upon  them,  for 
neither  even  smiled. 

''It  is  as  I  expected,'  said  Mr.  Blackbeard. 
'Ever  since  suspicion  was  directed  toward  him,  I 
have  not  doubted  he  could  explain  the  glove 
business.' 

"This  was  addressed  to  the  Captain  in  so  lugubri- 
ous a  tone  that  my  sympathies  were  excited.  So 
I  said: 

'  'Sir,  I  greatly  grieve  to  have  been  the  cause  of 
such  disappointment.  The  next  time  I  lose  a  glove, 
where  a  woman  may  fall  upon  it,  so  as  not  to  grieve 
you,  I  will  engage  in  the  gentle  pastime  of  assassina- 
tion.' 

"At  this  the  Captain  laughed  outright,  and  we 
all  became  quite  merry.  After  which  he  said: 

'  'I  think  you  have  satisfactorily  explained  your 
connection  with  the  case.  You  ought  not  to  wonder 
at  our  wanting  to  see  you,  in  view  of  finding  your 
glove  there.' 


216  THE  MAN  WITH  A   THUMB. 

"  'What  time  did  you  call  on  Mrs.  Farish?' 
inquired  Mr.  Blackbeard,  by  this  time  having 
recovered  from  my  settler. 

"'I  should  think  at  about  half-past  eight,'  I 
answered,  holding  no  malice  against  him. 

"  'Was  her  daughter  with  her?' 

'  'Her  daughter,'  I  repeated.  'No,  I  saw  her 
alone.  And  now  that  I  recollect,  she  said  she 
wished  her  daughter- would  come  in,  not  alone 
because  she  wanted  to  consult  her  as  to  the  possi- 
bility of  undertaking  my  work,  but  because  she  was 
worried  over  her  delay  in  returning  from  business.' 
'  'Urn,'  grunted  Mr.  Blackbeard.  'It  is  as  I 
supposed.  Her  daughter  was  killed  first.'  Then 
to  me,  'You  have  no  other  incident  to  give  us?' 

"  'None!'    I  replied. 

Whereupon  the  Captain,  rising  and  giving  me  his 
hand,  said: 

'  'We  will  detain  you  no  longer.' 

"So,  after  exchanging  our  distinguished  consid- 
erations, as  became  dignitaries,  I  went  out  into  the 
free  air-r  a  free  ma-an. 

"With  the  end  of  this  o'er  true  tale,"  concluded 
Eustace,  "comes  this  reflective  inquiry — how  the 
deuce  did  they  discover  that  glove  to  be  mine?" 

Dorison  had  listened  to  Eustace  intently  and  with 
varying  emotions.  It  was  with  difficulty  he  could 
prevent  expressing  exuberant  satisfaction  over  the 
outcome.  He  was  inexpressibly  glad  that  the  test 
Eustace  had  been  subjected  to  had  ended  as  it  had — 
that  is  to  say,  in  a  triumphant  clearance  of  Eustace. 


EUSTACE  IN  THE   TOILS.  217 

He  made  no  doubt  of  it,  and  as  he  thought  then  he 
did  not  believe  he  had  ever  judged  Eustace  to  be 
anything  but  innocent.  As  it  was,  he  said  warmly, 
he  was  glad  it  had  ended  so  well,  since  he  had  been 
greatly  frightened. 

"You  take  it  too  seriously,  my  friend,"  said 
Eustace. 

"No,  I  do  not,"  replied  Dorison.  "But  that  you 
were  enabled  to  present  names  to  substantiate  your 
story  you  might  have  been  in  an  awkward  predica- 
ment, with  annoying  publicity." 

"Bless  my  heart,  but  I  never  thought  of  that," 
said  Eustace.  "I  think  you  are  right.  And  I  also 
think  it  is  time  to -dine.  Come  with  me,  and  after 
dinner  we'll  go  to  the  theater." 

"I'll  dine  with  you,  but  I  have  a  business  engage- 
ment for  this  evening,"  he  replied,  as  he  prepared 
to  go  out  with  his  friend. 


CHAPTER  XX. 

A  MYSTERY  REVEALED. 

T  EAVING  young  Eustace  after  dinner,  Dorison 
LJ  went  at  once  to  the  rooms  of  the  old  detective. 
A  single  glance  informed  him  that  the  old  man 
was  in  a  happy  humor. 

"I  received  a  note  from  you  in  the  early  after- 
noon," said  Dorison,  "but  all  of  it  I  could  under- 
stand was  that  you  desired  to  see  me  this  evening. 
And  here  I  am." 

"You  are  not  quick  of  comprehension.  I  meant 
your  case  is  as  plain  as  a  pikestaff.  You  had,  or 
have,  a  brother — the  latter  I  think." 

Dorison  stared  in  astonishment  at  the  detective, 
his  anger  rising  at  the  same  time.  However  much 
he  had  in  his  own  heart  condemned  his  father  for 
the  charge  which,  for  eight  years,  had  embittered 
his  life,  he  was  not  willing  others  should  cast  reflec- 
tions upon  him. 

But  Cathcart  was  not  a  man  to  regard  the  emo- 
tions of  others,  and  though,  doubtless,  he  quickly 
enough  perceived  the  anger  of  the  young  man, 
without  preface,  apology,  or  effort  to  soften  the 
news  he  had  given  him,  he  went  directly  at  the 
statement. 

Very  soon  Dorison 's  anger  was  lost  in  the  astonish- 
218 


'    A  MYS  TER  Y  RE  VEA  LED.  2 1 9 

ment  the  story  gave  rise  to,  and  when  he  learned 
that  all  this  had  been  obtained  from  Mr.  Eustace, 
he  could  not  deny  that  it  was  conclusive. 

"Now,"  continued  Cathcart,  "As  I  say,  it  is  as 
plain  as  a  pikestaff.  I  have  reasoned  the  whole 
thing  out  to  a  certain  conclusion,  my  reasoning  being 
based  upon  information  obtained  from  Mr.  Eustace, 
papers  of  your  father  I  have  had  access  to,  confirm- 
ing them  by  public  records  and  the  examination  of 
books  of  private  institutions,  and  that  unfinished 
letter.  I  shall  not  waste  time  by  going  over  the 
processes,  but  will  give  you  my  conclusions  in  the 
shape  of  a  statement : 

'  When  your  father  was  twenty-one  or  three  he 
met  Emma  Ludlow,  a  very  pretty  girl,  daughter  of 
a  costumer  of  Chatham  Street.  Ludlow  was  an 
Englishman  who  had  in  his  own  country  been  con- 
nected with  a  family  of  prominence.  There  drifted 
to  this  country  one  of  the  younger  members  of  that 
family,  named  Parish,  who  also  saw  the  girl  Emma, 
and  desired  to  marry  her.  The  father  felt  honored 
that  one  of  the  family  he  had  been  a  servant  in, 
desired  to  marry  his  daughter,  and  having  the 
notions  of  parental  authority  Englishmen  entertain, 
and  overlooking  the  faults  of  the  man  Parish,  which 
were  so  great  he  was  compelled  to  leave  England, 
opposed  your  father  and  forced  the  marriage  with 
Parish.  Subsequently,  your  father  yielded  to  the 
wishes  of  his  family  and  married  Mary  Clavering, 
your  mother.  That  marriage  was  an  exceedingly 
happy  one,  notwithstanding  the  previous  romance. 


220  THE  MAN  WITH  A   THUMB. 

Your  father  and  mother  had  been  married  twelve 
years  when  you  were  born — the  youngest  of  a  family 
of  five,  the  elder  of  whom  had  all  died.  When  you 
were  four,  your  mother  died.  A  year  later  your 
father  met  Mrs.  Parish,  then,  as  he  understood,  and 
as  she  believed,  a  childless  widow.  His  love 
returned  for  her,  and  he  secretly  married  her. 
Why,  does  not  yet  appear,  but  his  excuse  was  he  was 
retiring  from  business  and  did  not  want  to  announce 
his  second  marriage  until  that  project  was  fully 
accomplished.  After  two  years  of  this  sort  of  life, 
during  which  two  children,  a  boy  and  girl,  were 
born,  Anne  and  Harold  Parish,  the  husband  turned 
up  on  the  scene,  to  separate  your  father  and  the 
woman.  Mrs.  Parish  was  a  good  woman,  and 
although  Parish,  who  seems  to  have  been  a  scamp, 
was  paid  well  to  keep  away  and  make  no  scandal,  his 
wife  insisted  upon  an  absolute  severance  of  rela- 
tions between  your  father  and  herself.  In  view, 
however,  of  all  that  had  happened,  your  father  pro- 
vided well  for  her  and  his  children.  In  1854  he 
gave  her  the  house  she  lived  and  was  murdered  in, 
and  fifty  thousand  dollars,  which  he  invested  for 
her,  I  suppose. 

"The  low  spirits  your  father  showed  at  that  time 
were  not  due  to  his  having  retired  from  business, 
but  to  this  unfortunate  complication.  The  children 
grew,  and  the  boy  early  went  wrong.  Between  the 
years  he  was  sixteen  and  nineteen,  he  committed 
defalcations  and  forgeries,  the  latter  principally  of 
your  father's  name,  which  indicates  that  he  knew 


A  MYSTERY  REVEALE&.  221 

of  his  relation  to  your  father,  and  which  were  paid 
by  his  father  and  yours,  and  as  well,  much  more 
money  to  save  him  from  punishment — foolishly  to 
be  sure,  but  compelled  to  it  to  save  the  good  name 
of  the  woman,  the  mother,  if  for  no  other  reason. 
This  used  up  the  property.  When  he  died  he  was 
appealing  to  Mr.  Eustace  for  assistance.  When 
he  died  the  scamp  Harold  disappeared.  Three 
years  ago  he  reappeared  again  and  ruined  his  mother 
by  his  insatiable  demands  and — " 

"And,"  interrupted  Dorison  excitedly,  "he  is 
Harry  Langdon  and  murdered  his  mother  and 
sister." 

"Such  would  seem  to  be  the  logical  conclusions," 
said  the  detective  calmly. 

A  thousand  questions  crowded  tumultuously  upon 
the  brain  of  Dorison.  He  did  not  know  which  to 
ask  first — he  wanted  to  ask  them  all  at-once.  Finally, 
he  said : 

"But  do  you  know  all  this  to  be  true?" 

"No,  not  in  its  entirety,"  replied  Cathcart.  "Some 
of  it  I  do  know  to  be  true,  the  rest  I  sincerely 
believe.  It  is  now,  however,  a  mere  work  of  time 
to  verify  everything.  The  mystery  is  solved.  The 
ungrateful  son  is  Harold  Parish,  alias  Harry  Lang- 
don." 

"But  what  was  the  cause  of  the  murder — that  was 
a  horrible  thing  to  do,"  asked  Dorison. 

"There  I  have  proof  I  think  of  the  accuracy  of 
my  theory  in  the  beginning.  I  said  the  object  of 
the  murders  was  not  robbery,  but  the  possession  of 


222  THE  MAN  WITH  A   THUMB. 

documents  of  value  to  somebody.  I  assume  they 
were  proofs  of  crimes  committed,  forgeries  and  the 
like,  which  so  long  as  they  were  held  by  the  mother 
and  sister,  were  a  protection  to  a  certain  extent  to 
them,  and  a  menace  to  him.  And  perhaps — and  we 
will  not  quite  know  until  we  force  the  rascal  to  con- 
fession— some  one  pursuing  him  was  on  track  of 
them  and  he  was  determined  to  secure  and  destroy 
them,  and  perhaps,  which  I  think  even  more  prob- 
able, one  other  reason,  to  obtain  an  order  for  a 
large  sum,  possession  of  which  would  secure  posses- 
sion of  the  sum,  which  he  thought  they  held.  Of 
this,  however,  I  will  not  speak  at  present  for  reasons 
of  my  own." 

"Do  you  then  think  the  murders  were  deliber- 
ately planned?" 

"  No.  The  first,  that  of  the  daughter,  was  unpre- 
meditated, but  was  done  in  a  moment  of  exaspera- 
tion. The  second — of  the  mother — was  a  conse- 
quence of  the  first,  as  a  matter  of  self-preservation." 

Horrified  and  much  excited,  Dorison  was  silent. 
His  head  was  in  a  whirl,  and  every  moment  fresh 
thoughts,  each  one  coming  to  him  as  a  shock,  occur- 
red. The  murderer  was  his  half-brother ;  the  beast, 
Harry  Langdon,  was  his  half-brother.  The  same 
blood  coursed  in  their  veins.  The  passions  and 
emotions  which  possessed  him  he  could  not  stop  to 
analyze,  they  succeeded  each  other  so  rapidly — in- 
deed, became  so  entangled  and  exhausted  him  so  with 
their  violence,  that  he  became  confused  and  sick, 
incapable  of  thinking  clearly;  but  over  all,  as  a 


A  MYSTERY  REVEALED.  223 

lambent  light,  was  the  thought  that  his  own  name 
was  clear  and  he  could  walk  erect  among  other  men 
in  his  own  person. 

Cathcart  was  the  first  to  break  the  silence. 

"Your  friend,  young  Eustace,  is  out  of  it,"  he 
said. 

Dorison  roused  up  with  something  like  a  start. 

"Yes,"  he  said,  "he  told  me.  He  came  straight 
from  you  to  me." 

"Did  he  know  who  he  had  talked  with,"  asked 
Cathcart  anxiously. 

"No,"  replied  Dorison,  "but  I  recognized  his 
description  of  the  black-bearded  man." 

"I  do  not  want  him  to  know  that  the  man  to  whom 
his  father  told  that  story,  and  the  one  who  helped 
to  examine  him,  were  the  same.  I  do  not- want  him 
to  know  that  you  ever  suspected  or  watched  him." 

"He  will  never  know  from  me.  I  am  far  more 
anxious  than  you.  I  cannot  look  upon  that  part 
of  the  search  with  anything  but  self-contempt." 

"But  I  never  believed  he  was  in  it,"  said  Cathcart. 

"Why  then,"  asked  Dorison  hotly,  "did  you  force 
me  to  an  intimacy  with  that  idea  in  view?" 

"Because  the  glove  business  must  be  explained, 
but  principally  because,  early  in  my  search  into  your 
part  of  the  affair,  I  had  come  upon  the  intimate 
relation  of  the  elder  Eustace  to  the  elder  Dorison, 
through  Cousin  Nettleman,  and  I  foresaw  then  an 
intimacy  with  the  family  would  be  a  necessary 
thing,  and  that  I  might  have  to  use  you  to  elicit  the 
information  I  wanted.  At  the  time  I  could  not 


224  THE  MAX  WITH  A    THUMB. 

give  you  the  details,  but  I  had  to  give  you  a  reason 
for  seeking  the  intimacy,  since  you  are  one  of  those 
uncomfortable  persons  to  work  with  who  must  have 
a  reason  for  everything.  But  your  blundering,  and 
the  coolness  which  you  permitted  to  grow  up 
between  the  elder  Eustace  and  yourself,  necessitated 
my  doing  the  work  I  intended  for  you.  As  it  is, 
I  am  glad  it  turned  out  as  it  did.  You  could  never 
have  gotten  the  story." 

Agitated  and  excited  as  he  was,  Dorison  appre- 
ciated the  truth  of  the  old  man's  words. 

"You  do  not  know  the  reason  of  the  old  man's 
coolness  to  you?" 

"No." 

"I  do." 

"What?"  asked  Dorison  eagerly. 

"He  suspected  you  to  be  the  son  of  Dorison  by 
Mrs.  Parish. " 

"Oh!"  The  possibility  of  such  a  thing  had  not 
occurred  to  Dorison.  • 

"But  that  is  no  reason  why  he  should  treat  me 
coldly,  since,  as  you  have  told  me,  he  was  not  then, 
at  least,  aware  of  the  bad  character  of  that  son." 

"There  was  a  stain  on  the  birth  of  that  son  of  the 
elder  Dorison." 

"Even  then  it  should  have  appeared  more  as  a 
misfortune  than  a  crime  of  the  parents." 

"True,  so  far  as  he  might  have  looked  upon 
such  a  son  in  the  abstract,  but  as  a  person  whom 
he  had  received  as  an  equal  into  his  house,  was 
entertaining  as  a  guest  at  his  own  board,  and  bring- 


A    MYSTERY  REVEALED.  225 

ing  him  into  associations  with  his  daughters,  there 
was  a  great  difference  to  a  man  of  his  views  of  life 
and  of  his  station.  He  would  naturally  draw  a  line 
on  a  man  of  such  birth  at  his  own  door,  commisera- 
ting the  man  for  the  necessity  at  the  same  time." 

"True.  You  are  right,"  replied  Dorison  thought- 
fully. 

"I  think  you  ought  to  appear  before  the  elder 
Eustace  now  in  your  own  person." 

Dorison  was  startled  at  the  idea,  and  shrank 
from  it. 

"Are  you  so  certain  of  your  case  then?"  he  asked. 

"I  am  absolutely  certain.  It  is  now  a  mere  mat- 
ter of  time  to  prove  it  in  all  its  details." 

"But  will  he  receive  me  courteously  after  having 
appeared  to  him  under  a  different  name?" 

"I  have  very  much  misjudged  the  man,  if  he  is 
not  much  interested  in  the  legitimate  son  of  Reuben 
Dorison,  sympathizing  greatly  with  his  misfortunes, 
and  anxious  by  reason  of  the  service  rendered  him 
by  his  father,  to  actively  assist  the  son  of  that  father. " 

"Ah!"  Yet  Dorison  was  doubtful.  He  thought 
Mr.  Eustace  would  be  prejudiced  against  him  by 
reason  of  his  masquerade. 

"I  think,"  continued  Cathcart,  "that  Mr.  Eustace, 
with  his  high  social  position  and  his  honorable  repu- 
tation, will  be  a  very  great  aid  to  you  in  the  rehabil- 
itation of  your  name.  His  friendship  and  patronage 
will  do  more  for  you  than  a  thousand  explanations. 
Indeed,  without  the  assistance  of  some  such  person, 
explanations  will  be  of  little  avail.  I  will  write  a 


226  THE  MAN  WITH  A    THUMB. 

letter  to  him  that  will  make  all  things  straight,  which 
you  shall  carry  to  him." 

Acting  upon  the  thought  immediately,  Cathcart 
turned  to  his  table  and  began  writing. 

Dorison  sat  by,  lost  in  wonder  over  the  patient 
subtlety  the  old  man  had  displayed  in  reaching  the 
secret  of  that  unfinished  letter. 

When  Cathcart  had  finished  the  letter  he  inclosed 
it  in  an  envelope  which  he  sealed.  As  he  handed 
it  to  Dorison  he  said : 

"Take  that  to  Mr.  Eustace  to-morrow.  It  is  too 
late  to-night.  I  have  sealed  it,  because  I  have 
asked  Mr.  Eustace  not  to  mention  to  you  a  certain 
matter  which  I  think  well  to  be  concealed  from  you 
for  a  time. ' ' 

Dorison  was  now  too  well  accustomed  to  the  pecu- 
liar frankness  of  the  old  man  to  either  wonder  at  or 
combat  it.  As  he  received  the  letter  he  said: 

"Do  you  intend  to  cause  the  arrest  of  this  Lang- 
don  right  away?" 

"No.  Not  until  I  have  verified  some  matters 
and  have  obtained  some  further  information  con- 
cerning him,  that  I  may  use  to  wrest  a  confession 
from  him." 

"He  may  escape  you." 

"No,  he  suspects  nothing,  and  besides  he  is 
shadowed  every  step  he  takes — by  more  than  one 
too." 

The  hour  being  late,  Dorison  departed. 


CHAPTER  XXI. 

AN    UNEXPECTED    TURN. 

WHEN  Dorison  left  the  house  in  which  were 
Cathcart's  rooms,  he  was  still  in  a  whirl  and 
confusion  of  thought.  The  dream  he  had  enter- 
tained for  eight  years  seemed  on  the  point  of  reali- 
zation. If  the  old  detective  were  to  be  believed, 
it  was  even  then  practically  realized.  And  the 
revelation  had  come,  so  far  as  he  was  concerned, 
at  a  moment  when  he  was  sunk  into  the  deepest  pit 
of  despair — when  the  -case  looked  darker  and  more 
hopeless  than  ever. 

So  marvelously  had  it  all  worked  out,  thought 
Dorison  as  he  walked  along — so  strangely  had  he 
been  led  by  impulse  to  return  to  the  city;  and  so 
curiously  had  he  been  brought  into  relation  with 
Mr.  Nettleman  and  then  into  connection  with  the 
murder  of  Anne  Parish,  thus  bringing  him  again 
into  relations  with  Cathcart,  that  he  could  not  but 
feel  that  he  was  in  the  hands  of  a  Power  whose 
movements  he  could  not  even  attempt  to  comprehend. 

As  in  a  dream  he  walked  along.  The  house  occu- 
pied by  the  old  detective  was  further  from  Broad- 
way than  from  the  Bowery.  So  it  came  that  he  had 
some  distance  to  walk  before  he  reached  the  former 
street. 

227 


228  THE  MAN  WITH  A    THUMB. 

He  was  aroused  by  the  noise  of  a  stumble  behind 
him,  and  turning  quickly  received  simultaneously  a 
severe  blow  upon  his  left  forearm,  a  blow  evidently 
intended  for  his  head,  and  so  powerful  as  too  send 
him  to  the  pavement.  At  the  same  time  he  heard 
a  cry. 

"Ah,  you  rascals!" 

This  cry  frightened  his  assailants,  who  dashed 
across  the  street  and  were  lost  in  the  darkness. 

By  the  time  the  one  who  cried  out  had  come  run- 
ning up,  Dorison,  faint  with  pain,  had  struggled  to 
his  feet. 

"The  woman  was  right.  I  should  have  heeded 
her  warning,"  he  muttered,  confusedly,  to  the  man 
who  had  come  to  his  assistance,  and  who  was  none 
other  than  the  officer  Cathcart  had  instructed  to 
follow  Dorison  as  a  protection. 

"You  must  return  at  once  to  the  chief,"  said 
the  officer.  "Are  you  much  hurt?" 

"My  arm  pains  me  a  good  deal,"  replied  Dori- 
son, "but  it  is  better  than  if  it  were  my  head." 

The  officer  hurried  him  to  Cathcart's  apartments. 

The  old  detective  comprehended  the  situation 
before  he  could  be  informed  by  the  officer. 

"Where  were  you  hit?"  he  asked. 

"On  the  left  arm,"  replied  Dorison. 

Quickly  and  gently  the  old  man  bared  the  injured 
member. 

"lam  not  a  surgeon,"  he  said,  as  he  manipulated 
the  arm,  "but  I  can  generally  tell  whether  bones  are 
broken  or  not." 


AN    UNEXPECTED   TURN.  229 

He  looked  serious  as  he  plied  it.  To  the  officer 
he  said,  "Get  a  coach  as  quickly  as  you  can." 

Leading  Dorison  to  a  lounge  he  laid  him  upon  it, 
saying,  "Rest  there  a  moment;  I  cannot  tell 
whether  your  arm  is  broken  or  not.  We  will  go 
immediately  to  a  surgeon.  By  Heavens!"  he  cried 
to  himself,  "that  is  an  idea,  and  he  is  not  far  off." 

He  sprang  to  his  bureau  and  opening  the  lower 
drawer  took  out  a  light  gray  wig  and  beard.  With 
a  rapidity  that  astonished  Dorison,  watching  him  in 
great  pain  as  he  was,  the  old  detective  put  them 
on,  and  with  the  use  of  cosmetic,  rouge  and  powder, 
presented  in  a  moment  an  entirely  different  face 
and  head.  Darting  into  an  adjoining  room  he 
issued  a  moment  or  two  later  in  a  black  broadcloth 
suit.  To  put  a  gold  chain  around  his  neck  and  to 
assume  a  gold  eye-glass  secured  by  a  small  gold 
chain,  was  the  work  of  a  moment  more,  and  when 
completed, he  was  a  prosperous  merchant  or  bank  r, 
ready  to  receive  the  announcement  of  the  officer  who 
entered,  that  the  carnage  was  ready. 

The  interest  of  this  strange  proceeding  was  so 
great  to  Dorison  that  he  had  not  asked  a  question, 
contenting  himself  with  watching. 

"Come,"  said  Cathcart,  "I  will  take  you  to  a 
physician — a  surgeon." 

As  Dorison,  with  the  help  of  the  others,  arose, 
Cathcart  said  to  the  officer,  "You  are  to  go  with  us." 

After  Dorison  had  been  placed  in  the  carriage 
Cathcart  told  the  driver  to  go  to  No.  —  Tenth  Street, 
Dr.*  Fassett. 


230  THE  MAN  WITH  A    77/C.lf/?. 

Even  this  conveyed  nothing  to  Dorison,  some- 
what dazed  with  the  pain  he  was  enduring. 

Dr.  Fassett  was  in,  and  they  were  at  once  taken 
into  his  consulting  room. 

The  surgeon  bared  the  arm  and  examined  it. 

"I  should  say  this  injury  was  inflicted  with  a  sand 
club.  What  are  the  circumstances?" 

Before  Dorison  could  reply,  Cathcart  interfered. 

"Robbery,  I  should  say.  This  young  man,  who 
is  my  nephew,  was  passing  along  Bond  Street.  My 
friend  and  myself  were  some  distance  behind  him, 
when  three  men  rushed  from  a  place  of  concealment 
upon  him.  •  He  heard  them,  for  he  turned,  and  a 
blow  aimed  for  his  head  fell  upon  his  arm.  My 
friend  cried  out,  'Ah,  you  rascals!'  and  they  fled 
without  inflicting  further  injury.  Calling  a  car- 
riage, I  drove  right  here,  for  I  had  heard  my  friend 
Eustace  speak  of  your  skill." 

The  surgeon  had  been  manipulating  the  arm 
while  Cathcart  was  talking. 

"No  bones  are  broken,  I  am  sure,"  he  said. 
"Take  him  home  immediately  and  apply  cloths 
dipped  in  hot  water,  as  hot  as  he  can  stand  it,  and 
keep  this  up  constantly  for  four  or  five  hours. 
Then  to-morrow  morning  bring  him  here  to  me 
before  ten  o'clock." 

The  physcian  was  curt,  prompt,  and  imperative. 
Cathcart  was  disposed  to  engage  him  in  conversa- 
tion. But  Dr.  Fassett  ended  further  talk  by  say- 
ing: 

"I  have  told   you  what  to   do.     YJU   must  hot 


AN   UNEXPECTED    TURN.  231 

detain  me.  I  have  an  important  case,  and  must  go 
out  now." 

"Can  we  not  set  you  down  where  you  want  to 
go?"  asked  the  old  detective. 

"What  you  want  to  do,"  said  the  doctor,  "is  to 
get  your  nephew  under  treatment  of  hot  water  as 
soon  as  you  can." 

There  was  nothing  left  on  this  but  to  go,  and 
they  did,  with  very  bad  grace  upon  the  part  of  the 
old  detective. 

"That  was  a  misplay,"  he  said,  as  he  entered  the 
carriage.  "I  hoped  to  be  able  to  talk  with  him  so 
as  to  bring  in  Langdon.  I  want  to  know  what  the 
doctor  knows  about  him.  Not  much,  perhaps,  but 
everything  counts  in  this  business.  However,  I  will 
have  a  chance  at  him  to-morrow  morning." 

"That  was  the  physician  that  knocked  Miss 
Eustace  down,  on  Broadway,  with  his  horses," 
said  Dorison  faintly.  "He  did  not  recognize  me." 

Arriving  at  Dorison's  apartments,  to  which  they 
were  rapidly  driven,  Cathcart  and  the  officer  devoted 
themselves  to  the  treatment  recommended  by  the 
surgeon,  after  which,  and  putting  Dorison  into  his 
bed,  Cathcart  dismissed  the  officer,  with  instructions 
to  go  to  his  rooms  in  Bond  Street  early  in  the 
morning,  and  bring  what  mail  he  might  find  there 
to  him  before  nine.  Then  he  laid  himself  down  on 
the  lounge  to  sleep. 

The  treatment  he  had  been  subjected  to  eased  the 

•  pain  that  Dorison  had  been  suffering  from,  yet  he 

lay  a  long  time  unable  to  sleep.     The  events  of  the 


$$2  THE  MAN   WITH  A    THUM&. 

day  and  evening  had  been  many  and  startling. 
They  were  destined  to  have  a  very  considerable 
influence  upon  his  life.  Just  what,  he  could  not  tell, 
but  one  thing  was  certain,  it  would  now  be  turned 
into  another  channel  than  that  he  had  followed 
for  the  past  eight  years.  Though  he  tossed  on  his 
bed  because  of  the  excitement  of  the  day,  Cathcart 
slumbered  so  peacefully  and  easily,  that  Dorison 
became  unreasonably  provoked  with  him. 

However,  as  the  morning  light  streamed  into  the 
windows,  he  fell  into  a  sleep,  from  which  he  was 
aroused  shortly  after  eight  by  Cathcart  and  bidden 
to  dress  and  partake  of  the  breakfast  he  had  sent 
for.  He  was  barely  prepared  for  it  before  the  officer 
entered  with  Mr.  Cathcart's  mail. 

Among  the  letters  was  a  telegram  which  Cathcart 
opened.  Reading  it,  he  handed  it  to  Dorison,  with 
an  expression  of  satisfaction  and  the  remark: 

"Confirmations  are  beginning  to  come." 

Dorson  read  it.     It  ran  : 

"Langdon  was  known  as  Harry  Parish  here  seven 
years  ago — then  a  mere  boy ;  afterwards  got  into 
prison.  Turned  up  in  Chicago  five  years  ago  as 
Harry  Langdon.  See  letter  mailed  to-night." 

"That  settles  that  part  of  the  theory,"  remarked 
Cathcart. 

Having  partaken  of  the  breakfast,  Cathcart  pro- 
posed to  set  out  to  call  upon  Dr.  Fassett. 

To  this  Dorison  demurred.  His  arm,  though  stiff 
and  sore,  however  needed  no  more  treatment  than 
had  been  given  it. 


AM   UNEXPECTED    TURN.  $$$ 

But  Cathcart  said : 

"No;  I  took  advantage  of  your  accident  to  get 
to  Dr.  Fassett  naturally,  and  we  must  go  to  fulfill 
the  purpose  I  was  balked  in  last  night.  How  much 
Fassett  may  know  about  Langdon  is  uncertain,  but 
I  propose  to  obtain  all  he  does  know.  Your  injury 
gives  us  the  natural  excuse." 

Therefore  they  set  out.  On  arriving  at  the  house 
of  the  physician  and  entering,  the  reception  room 
was  found  to  be  not  only  full,  but  actually  crowded. 

Dr.  Fassett  happened  to  be  in  the  hall  at  the 
moment  of  entering,  and  said: 

"I  am  afraid  you  will  have  to  wait  a  little  time, 
for  I  have  a  nice  operation  on  hand."  To  his 
attendant  he  said,  '  'James,  take  these  gentlemen 
into  my  private  office,"  and  disappeared. 

The  attendant  was  evidently  astonished.  "I've 
been  with  Dr.  Fassett  three  years,"  he  said  as  he  led 
the  way,  "but  I've  never  known  this  to  occur  before, 
though  I've  seen  them  sitting  in  the  hall  before  this. ' ' 

Cathcart  whispered  to  the  officer  to  remain  in  the 
hall. 

The  private  office  of  the  physician  was  a  small 
room,  evidently  an  extension  from  the  main  building, 
for  it  was  lighted  pleasantly  from  the  side. 

Between  the  two  windows  was  a  small  roller-top 
desk.  In  the  center  a  flat  table  where  the  physi- 
cian evidently  did  his  writing.  At  one  window  was 
a  large  operating-chair,  but  devoted  by  its  owner  to 
the  purpose  of  ease.  A  low  easy-chair,  into  which 
Dorison  dropped,  was  on  the  side  of  the  center 


234  THE  MAN  WITH  A    THUMB. 

table,  opposite  to  that  on  which  the  writing-chair 
stood.  In  the  corner  was  an  iron  safe,  the  heavy 
door  of  which  was  open,  the  inner  one  only  being 
closed. 

So  soon  as  the  door  was  shut  upon  the  attendant 
Cathcart  began  a  minute  examination  of  the  room, 
much  to  Dorison's  annoyance,  who  thought  his 
companion  was  displaying  an  impertinent  curiosity. 

He  even  opened  the  portfolio  of  the  doctor  and 
turned  over  its  leaves.  Between  two.  of  them  was 
a  letter  partly  written,  and  Cathcart  did  not  scruple 
to  read  it.  Nor  a  letter  addressed  to  the  physician. 

Unable  to  contain  himself  longer,  Dorison  pro- 
tested, intimating  that  it  was  highly  improper  to 
read  the  private  papers  of  a  gentleman  who  had 
trusted  them  to  the  extent  of  turning  them  into  his 
own  private  room. 

To  this  Cathcart  made  no  answer,  but  asked 
coolly: 

"Didn't  that  woman  say  that  Langdon  had  some 
hold  on  Dr.  Fassett?" 

"Yes." 

"And  young  Eustace  suspected  something  of  the 
kind  from  the  way  in  which  Langdon  treated 
Fassett?" 

"Yes." 

"Well,  they  are  both  right,  I  should  judge,  from 
these  things.  This  letter,"  taking  up  one,  "is 
signed  'Harry,'  and  intirriates  that  they  must  have 
some  more  business  from  the  doctor,  or  the  fur  will 
fly.  This  one,"  taking  up  the  one  partially  com- 


AN    UNEXPECTED    TURN.  235 

pleted,  "tells  Harry  that  there  will  be  no  more 
business ;  that  he  has  been  his  servant  as  long  as  he 
ever  will  be,  and  that  the  end  is  reached,  since  he 
is  now  in  a  position  to  do  for  Harry  what  Harry 
threatened  to  do  for  the  writer.  It  seems  to  be  a 
declaration  of  independence." 

He  closed  the  book,  leaving  it  precisely  as  he 
found  it.  On  the  mantel-piece  he  found  a  case  of 
instruments  and  became  much  interested  in  it,  tak- 
ing out  each  one  and  examining  it  closely,  putting 
them  back  one  by  one. 

Every  visible  object  in  the  room  seemed  to  go 
under  his  touch ;  but  when  he  went  to  the  roller-top 
desk,  and  taking  a  wire  from  his  pocket  deliberately 
picked  the  lock  and  softly  moved  up  the  top,  Dori- 
son  could  stand  it  no  longer. 

'-'If  you  do  not  end  this  thing,"  he  cried,  "I  cer- 
tainly shall  ask  the  doctor  to  come  here." 

"Be  quiet,"  said  Cathcart  contemptuously. 
"Everything  is  grist  that  comes  to  my  mill." 

His  search  was  not  rewarded,  and  he  closed  the 
desk. 

The  safe  now  claimed  his  attention.  The  key 
had  been  left  carelessly  in  the  inner  door ;  calmly 
turning  it  he  threw  it  open  and  as  calmly  and  coolly 
inspected  its  contents.  Perceiving  in  one  of  the 
pigeon-holes  a  bundle,  he  took  it  out  and  ran  over 
the  ends  of  it.  This  seemed  to  be  interesting  to 
him,  for  he  closed  the  door,  turned  the  key  and 
walked  to  one  _  of  the  windows.  Taking  off  the 
elastics  which  bound  it  he  shuffled  the  various  papers 


236  THE  MA IV  //7/'//,/    77/r.)/7>\ 

in  his  fingers  and  putting  the  rubber  bands  on  again 
went  back  to  the  safe  as  if  he  intended  to  restore, 
them, — then  turning  quickly  on  his  heel,  went  to 
the  door  and  called  the  officer,  who  was  awaiting 
him  in  the  hall. 

To  Dorison  he  now  turned  and  said : 

"I  have  found  something  which  will  throw  some 
light  on  Harold  Farish  and  the  relations  existing 
between  him  and  Fassett." 

Dorison  was  about  to  protest,  but  he  observed 
that  the  old  man's  eyes  were  flashing  fire. 

To  the  officer  who  entered  he  said : 

"I  want  you  to  sit  down  here  and  keep  your 
mouth  shut." 

He  put  the  package  of  papers  in  the  inner  pocket 
of  his  coat,  and  going  to  the  center-table  leaned 
against  it,  thrusting  his  hands  in  his  vest-pockets 
and  dropping  his  chin  on  his  breast. 

There  was  something  so  extraordinary  in  his 
manner  that  both  men  watched  him  silently. 

Perhaps  ten  minutes  elapsed,  when  the  attendant 
opened  the  door  and  said  that  the  doctor  would  see 
them. 

Dorison  rose  to  obey  the  summons,  but  Cathcart 
waved  him  back  with  an  imperious  gesture. 

"Tell  the  doctor,"  he  said,  "to  come  here — it  is 
important." 

The  attendant  disappeared,  and  Dorison  looked 
to  the  old  detective  for  an  explanation. 

None  was  forthcoming. 

In  a  moment  more  Dr.  Fassett  hurried  in,  with  a 


AN   UNEXPECTED    TURN.  237 

frown  of  impatience  and  annoyance  clouding  his 
brow. 

"Close  the  door,"  said  Cathcart  to  the  officer. 

Then  stepping  quickly  to  the  physician  and  lay- 
ing his  hand  on  his  shoulder  he  said : 

"Dr.  Fassett,  I  arrest  you  for  the  murders  of 
Emma  Farish  and  Anne  Parish. " 


CHAPTER  XXII. 

STRANGE    REVELATIONS. 

doctor  staggered  back  as  white  as  the  wall 
1     against  which  he  fell.    • 

Dorison  and  the  officer  sprang  to  their  feet, 
astounded  and  horror-stricken.  For  a  brief  moment 
Dorison  entertained  the  idea  that  Cathcart  had 
taken  leave  of  his  senses. 

But  what  thoughts  either  might  have  had  were 
diverted  by  the  mad  rush  the  doctor  made  at 
Cathcart. 

The  officer  and  Dorison,  despite  his  injured  arm, 
leaped  to  the  assistance  of  the  old  man. 

Had  Cathcart  anticipated  the  attack  ?  He  was 
not,  at  all  events,  taken  unaware:  for  stepping 
lightly  aside,  he  caught  the  doctor  by  the  throat, 
and  would  have  himself  incapacitated  the  infuriated 
man  without  the  assistance  promptly  given  him. 

"You  will  not  do  another,"  he  said  fiercely  to 
his  prisoner. 

Firmly  held  by  the  officer,  with  his  arms  twisted 
behind  his  back,  the  doctor  was  helpless.  To  make 
his  hold  more  secure,  the  officer  placed  his  knee 
against  the  doctor's  back  and  bent  him  over  back- 
wards. 

In  impotent  rage  the  doctor  gnashed  his  teeth. 
238 


STRANGE  REVELATIONS.  239 

"How  do  you  know  this?  It  is  a  lie!  It  is  a  lie! 
You  couldn't  have  known  it,"  he  cried  huskily. 

He  made  a  mighty  struggle  to  free  himself,  and 
Cathcartwent  to  the  assistance  of  the  officer. 

"Take  the  handcuffs  from  my  inside  pocket," 
said  the  officer  to  Dorison,  who  did  as  he  was 
requested. 

In  a  moment  more  they  were  snapped  upon  the 
struggling  man's  wrists.  Even  then  he  fought  and 
wrestled  until  he  was  thrown  down  and  his  ankles 
tied  with  a  stout  twine. 

"I  did  not  come  prepared  for  this  sort  of  busi- 
ness," said  the  panting  officer. 

"None  of  us  did,"  replied  Cathcart.  Then  to 
the  doctor  he  said : 

"You  do  not  help  yourself  by  such  struggles. 
I've  had  many  a  man  in  your  fix  befose." 

"What  imp  of  hell  are  you?"  hissed  the  physician 
from  between  his  teeth. 

"My  name  is  Simon  Cathcart,"  replied  the  old 
man  quietly. 

The  name  appeared  to  calm  the  doctor,  and  he 
mustered: 

"  'The  Devil  of  the  West!'  Harry  said  he  was 
in  the  city.  Well,"  he  cried  aloud,  "its  a  lie. 
Why  do  you  charge  me,  one  of  New  York's  foremost 
physicians  and  surgeons,  with  such  a  thing?" 

"Because  you  killed  those  two  helpless  and  inof- 
fensive women,  that's  why." 

The  cold,  positive  tone  of  the  old  detective 
enraged  him  again. 


240  THE  MAN  WITH  A    THUMB, 

"Its  a  lie.  You  couldn't  have  known  it.  No- 
body could." 

"Bah!"  replied  Cathcart,  "you're  a  baby.  You 
don't  even  know  enough  to  cover  your  tracks. 
When  I  first  saw  the  bodies,  I  knew  a  physician,  a 
surgeon,  had  done  the  job.  You  couldn't  keep 
the  shop  out  of  it.  You  cut  the  carotid  artery  in 
each  case,  not  as  a  bungler,  but  as  a  surgeon  per- 
forms an  operation." 

The  idea  that  the  crime  might  be  traced  to  a  sur- 
geon in  this  way  had  not  occurred  to  the  doctor, 
and  he  seemed  frightened  at  the  sagacious  penetra- 
tion displayed  by  the  detective. 

"You  did  it  with  a  lancet,"  continued  Cath- 
cart. And  taking  the  one  the  servant  had  found 
on  the  floor  from  his  pocket,  he  added:  "And 
with  this  lancet,  which  you  foolishly  left  behind  you 
after  the  second  murder.  And  this  lancet  came 
from  this  case." 

The  old  man  crossed  to  the  mantel-piece,  and  tak- 
ing up  the  case,  continued,  as  he  opened  it: 

"It  belongs  to  this  set.  It  is  precisely  the  same 
make — same  tortoise-shell  handle,  and  here  is,  the 
place  from  which  it  came — a  vacant  place  waiting  for 
it  since  the  5th  day  of  October.  Bah!  You  haven't 
even  attempted  to  cover  your  tracks.  You,  a  smart 
man." 

The  physician,  apparently  crushed  and  humil- 
iated, turned  a  look  of  horror  upon  the  merciless 
old  man. 

Dorison,  filled  with   pity   for  the  poor  wretch, 


STRANGE  REVELATIONS.  241 

failing  to  realize  that  the  murderer  of  his  half-sister 
lay  bound  before  him,  thought  Cathcart  brutal  in 
his  triumph  over  the  prisoner.  But  the  old  man 
had  a  purpose  in  the  course  he  was  pursuing. 

"Bah!  If  you  were  as  skillful  a  murderer  as  you 
are  a  surgeon,  you  would  not  have  made  tracking  so 
easy.  Your  very  skill  as  a  surgeon  undid  you,  and 
it  was  only  a  question  as  to  when  we  would  get 
around  to  you.  Murder  is  a  fine  art  a  man  said 
yesterday.  When  a  man  undertakes  to  do  two  in 
one  night  he  wants  to  be  a  master^of  the  art." 

The  man  on  the  floor  made  a  gallant  effort  to 
retrieve  himself.  He  was  not  a  coward.  He  had 
been  overwhelmed  by  the  unexpected  blow.  But 
now  that  vigorous  brain  came  into  action,  he  re- 
covered self-possession,  and  was  cool  and  master  of 
himself. 

"You  are  very  keen,"  he  said  with  a  sneer.  "Do 
you  know  that  a  thousand  such  cases  of  instruments 
can  be  found  .in  the  city,  and  that  surgeons  usu- 
ally carry  their  lancets  in  their  pockets.  If  you  will 
permit  one  of  these  gentlemen  to  feel  in  my  right- 
hand  vest-pocket  you  will  find  another  lancet  exactly 
similar  to  the  one  you  have  in  your  hand." 

The  total  change  in  the  manner  of  the  physician 
startled  Dorison,  and  his  words  made  him  believe 
Cathcart  had  made  a  blunder  in  arresting  the  doctor 
on  so  slight  a  ground. 

"I'll  take  your  word  for  it,"  said  Cathcart  calmly. 
"And  you  take  my  word  that  I'll  find  the  case  to 
which  it  belongs  in  your  consulting  room." 


242  THE  MAN  WITH  A    THUMB. 

The  expression  passing  over  the  doctor's  face 
assured  Cathcart  that  his  hazard  had  been  a  winning 
one. 

Dorison  experienced  a  revulsion,  and  was  de- 
ceived, supposing  that,  unobserved  by  him,  the  old 
detective  had  made  the  discovery  the  previous 
evening  when  the  doctor  was  examining  his  arm. 

"Yes,  you  carried  the  lancet  in  your  vest-pocket 
the  night  you  went  to  Bleecker  Street  to  kill  that 
poor  girl,"  continued  Cathcart,  "and  you  put  it 
back  in  your  vest-pocket  when  you  hurried  to  East 
Sixteenth  Street  too  kill  the  poqr  mother  in  the 
same  manner.  There,  however,  you  left  it  on  the 
floor  behind  you." 

There  was  a  rap  at  the  door.  Cathcart  sprang  to 
it  hastily.  It  was  the  attendant  desiring  to  tell  the 
doctor  that  those  in  waiting  were  becoming  impatient. 

"Dismiss  them  all,  and  say  that  the  doctor  will 
be  unable  to  see  any  more  to-day,"  and  he  closed 
the  door. 

"There  is  no  escape  for  you,  Dr.  Fassett.  The 
whole  of  the  story  is  plain.  I  will  tell  it,  not 
because  it  will  be  new  to  you,  but  because  it  will 
show  that  there  is  no  use  for  you  to  struggle  against 
your  fate. 

"You  committed  a  crime  in  your  younger  days 
Harry  Langdon,  alias  Harold  Parish,  was  cognizant 
of  it  and  held  you  so  firmly  in  his  grip  that  you 
were  a  slave  to  his  orders." 

"Ah,  the  doggish  hound!  He  has  informed  on 
me,  has  he?"  interrupted  the  doctor.  "You  have 


STRANGE  REVELATIONS.  243 

him  then,  have  you?  Well,  even  then  that  proves 
nothing  as  to  this  charge." 

"You  knew  he  was  a  criminal,  but  you  had  no 
proof  of  it,"  continued  Cathcart,  as  if  Fassett  had 
not  spoken.  "You  knew  there  was  evidence  of  his 
crimes  in  the  hands  of  those  poor  women,  .his 
mother  and  sister." 

Dorison  was  quite  as  much  surprised  at  this  as 
was  the  doctor,  who  could  not  perceive  that  the  old 
man  was  doing  some  shrewd  guess-work. 

"You  wanted  that  proof,"  continued  Cathcart, 
"that  you  might  be  free  from  that  slavery,  against 
which  your  proud,  arrogant  spirit  chafed.  You 
determined  to  obtain  it.  You  had  information  it 
was  in  the  hands  of  the  sister.  She  was  in  the  cos- 
turner's  shop  in  Bleecker  Street,  as  you  knew.  You 
sought  her  there,  and  found  her  looking  over  docu- 
ments you  thought  were  the  ones  you  wanted.  You 
begged  her  to  give  them  to  you.  You  would  not 
believe  her  when  she  told  you  she  had  them  not. 
You  threatened  her,  and  when  she  insisted  that  those 
which  she  had  in  her  hands  were  not  what  you 
wanted,  you  attempted  to  take  them  by  force.  She 
resisted,  and  in  a  moment  of  exasperation,  without 
premeditation,  frantic  with  rage  and  her  resistance 
and  mad  with  desire,  you  killed  her  and  seized  them. 
They  were  not  what  you  wanted.  You  found  that 
out  after  you  had  escaped  by  the  rear,  through  the 
drinking  saloon.  They  were  letters  written  by  Reu- 
ben Dorison  to  Emma  Farish." 

Notwithstanding  there  was  the  assumption  of  a 


244  THE  MAN  WITH  A    THUMB. 

sneer  upon  the  physician's  face,  there  was  in  his 
eyes  an  expression  of  utter  amazement,  and  he  mut- 
tered to  himself  under  his  breath. 

"Do  you  deny  this?"  asked  Cathcart,  sternly. 

"Give  me  those  slips,"  he  said,  turning  sharply 
to  Dorison.  The  young  man  was  so  absorbed  in 
the  vivid  and  graphic  description  the  old  detective 
was  giving  of  the  murder,  as  to  believe  for  the  time 
that  he  must  have  been  an  eye-witness  of  it,  that  Cath- 
cart was  forced  to  repeat  the  demand.  Mechanically 
taking  out  his  pocket-book  he  handed  the  slips  to 
the  old  detective,  a  proceeding  Fassett  regarded 
with  interest  not  unmixed  with  curiosity. 

"These  slips, "  continued  Cathcart,  holding  them 
before  the  eyes  of  Fassett,  were  found  in  that  room 
within  a  quarter  of  an  hour  after  your  departure — 
one  on  the  floor,  one  in  the  hand  of  the  murdered 
girl." 

Taking  out  the  package  he  had  removed  from 
the  safe  he  slipped  out  two  letters.  The  expression 
of  curiosity  fled  from  the  doctor's  eyes;  in  its  stead 
came  one  of  alarm.  He  quickly  glanced  at  the  safe 
in  the  corner.  He  realized  it  all  in  that  one  glance. 

A  frightful  imprecation  broke  from  his  lips. 

"You  are  a  thief,"  he  yelled. 

"No,"  calmly  replied  the  old  man.  "I  have  only 
taken  that  which  you  thieved  on  the  night  you 
murdered.  You  see  how  these  slips  fit  into  the 
letters  from  which  they  were  torn  in  your  struggle 
with  the  poor  girl.  We  will  read  the  whole  letter 
now." 


STRANGE  REVELATIONS. 


245 


/a-£scc*.     ti«.     •£*%&     &^<tn~t£ 


The  detective,  laying  the  letter  upon  the  table, 
turned  to  Dorison,  saying: 

"There  is  a  message  from  the  grave  of  your 
father,  John  Dorison." 

"Who?"  cried  Dr.  Fassett.  "Who  is  that  ?  That 
is  Dudley." 


246  THE  MAN   WITH  A    THUMB. 

"No,"  said  Cathcart.  "That  is  John  Dorison, 
son  of  Reuben,  who  for  eight  years  has  suffered  for 
the  sins  of  Harry  Langdon,  your  friend,  his  half- 
brother.  He  is  the  half-brother  of  your  victim." 

All  of  this  was  beginning  to  tell  upon  the  bound 
man,  and  he  showed  it  in  his  face. 

"Great  God!"  he  cried.     "What  a  revelation  .?" 

Cathcart  waited  for  him  to  say  more,  but  the 
doctor  relapsed  into  gloomy  silence.  The  old  man 
took  up  the  other. 

"This  slip,"*  he  said,  "fits  into  this  letter,  and 
we  will  have  some  more  testimony  from  the  dead." 

"The  letters  from  which  these  slips  were  torn  were 
found  in  your  safe.  Do  you  want  more  proof? 
Well  then,  you  hastened  to  Sixteenth  Street, 
knowing  that  you  had  killed  one  person  needlessly 
and  yet  must  have  the  documents.  There  you  found 
the  mother  alone,  and  there  you  demanded  the 
documents  and  were  refused.  You  were  desperate 
and  reckless  now.  The  struggle  this  time  did  not 
precede  the  murder.  Your  hand  was  in,  and, 
quickly  dispatching  her,  you  ravished  her  bosom  of 
the  documents  you  had  waded  through  blood  to 
secure.  With  them  in  your  hands,  dropping  your 
lancet  as  you  went,  you  hurried  away,  and" — hesita- 
ting a  moment,  Cathcart  added,  "and  with  them 
in  your  pocket  you  hastened  to  the  hospital,  where 
you  were  already  overdue,  and  with  calm  hand  set 
a  man's  broken  leg." 

"Here  are  the  documents,"  continued  the  old 

*  See  facsimile  letter  on  next  page. 


STRANGE  REVELATIONS.  $47 


^-^-  f_  g  ..  V-"   /i«J>-c*_^l.       t  <_»«.  <ltfr*C«^*" 


248  77/7?  MAN   IVITir  A    TIIl'.Mn. 

'detective,  tapping  the  package  he  held  in  his  hand, 
"forged  notes  and  checks  by  Harold  Parish,  and 
other  proofs  of  his  crimes,  the  marriage  certificates 
of  Reuben  Dorison  and  Emma  Parish,  and  some 
other  matters." 

The  poor  wretch,  completely  overwhelmed  by 
the  overpowering  circumstantiality  of  the  proof  piled 
up  against  him,  gave  up  resistance. 

He  laughed,  a  bitter,  reckless,  despairing  laugh. 

"Yes,"  he  said,  "youknovrall.  The  devil  himself 
must  have  been  your  informant,  for  you  could  not 
have  guessed  so  correctly  You  have  other  proof 
behind.  It  is  not  likely  you  have  exhausted  every- 
thing yet.  I  confess  it.  It  is  fate.  Fate  has  con- 
quered me.  I  have  tried  to  live  down  the  first 
error,  but  it  has  followed  me  to  the  end  and  run 
me  down.  Lift  me  into  a  chair.  I  have  nothing 
now  to  conceal." 

The  officer  and  Cathcart  lifted  the  man  from  the 
floor  and  placed  him  in  a  chair. 

Dorison,  wrought  up  to  the  highest  pitch,  found 
himself  full  of  pity  for  the  despairing  wretch,  who 
had  given  up  all  hope  and  ceased  to  struggle  against 
his  fate. 

"I  might  have  lived  a  better  life,"  said  the  doctor 
after  he  was  seated.  "I  had  the  ability  and  I  have 
already  achieved  eminence  in  my  profession.  But 
I  began  wrong.  There  is  a  taint  in  my  blood.  The 
wrong  was  begun  before  I  was  born.  The  truth  is, 
I  come  from  a  long  line  of  criminals?  Some  men 
are  born  to  a  tendency  to  this,  that,  and  the  other. 


S  TKA  NGE  RE  VELA  7  'TONS.  *  49 

I  was  to  crime.  Heredity!  You  know  so  much, 
know  all. 

"When  I  was  a  boy,  at  a  time  my  parents  were 
cast  into  prison,  I  was  taken  from  my  family,  as  bad 
a  one  as  Indiana  ever  saw,  by  a  charitable  man  of  Chi- 
cago, who,  perceiving  mental  qualities  in  me  supe- 
rior to  the  ordinary  run  of  boys,  educated  me.  I 
went  to  college  and  then  to  a  medical  school.  I 
repaid  his  kindness  by  ruining  his  daughter.  That 
was  the  first  beginning.  To  escape  the  conse- 
quences of  that  error  I  killed  her,  not  purposely,  but 
the  result  was  the  same,  a  fact  discovered  by  a  fellow 
medical  student,  Harry  Farish.  Then  I  employed 
him  to  assist  me  in  covering  my  tracks.  He  was 
already  bad,  and  shortly  after,  for  some  petty  offense, 
had  to  run  away.  In  Indianapolis  he  was  detected 
in  another  and  larger  crime,  and  under  the  name  of 
Tortescue  was  imprisoned.  Released  five  years 
ago,  he  went  to  Chicago,  under  the  name  of  Harry 
Langdon,  where  he  associated  himself  with  a  band 
of  thieves,  robbing  a  bank  with  the  connivance  of  a 
clerk.  After  this  the  gang  came  to  New  York. 
Langdon  hunted  me  up  and  began  his  persecutions 
of  me.  I  weakly  submitted  to  the  first  threat,  and 
they  made  me  one  of  the  'gang  in  spite  of  myself — 
compelling  me  to  use  my  knowledge  of  the  interior 
of  the  houses  I  visited  as  a  physician,  so  that  they 
could  rob  them 

"Ah,  the  mysterious  robberies!"  said  Cathcart. 

"Growing  as  I  was  into  fame,  reaching  the  highest 
places  .in  my  profession,  I  became  wild,  frantic,  over 


25°  T/r/>:  MAX  WITH  A  THUMB. 

this  slavery,  and  made  this  desperate  effort  to  free 
myself — " 

There  was  a  rap  at  the  door. 

From  the  force  of  habit  the  doctor  cried  out: 

"Well." 

The  voice  of  the  attendant  was  heard  in  reply. 

"Doctor,  Mr.  Langdon  says  he  must  see  you  on 
a  matter  that  cannot  be  delayed  a  moment." 


CHAPTER  XXIII. 

A    SIGN    IT    IS   OF    EVIL    LIFE. 

/^ATHCART  imposed  silence  with  uplifted  hand. 
\^>  "Ask  the  gentleman -to  step  here, "  he  called 
out. 

Dorison,  who  had  been  a  silent  and  awed  witness 
of  the  rapid  events,  looked  inquiringly  at  the  detec- 
tive for  some  indication  of  his  purpose. 

The  old  man  was  inscrutable. 

While  listening  to  Fassett,  he  had  again  leaned 
against  the  center-table  in  his  favorite  attitude — his 
hands  in  his  vest-pockets. 

As  he  heard  steps  advancing  through  the  hall  he 
went  to  the  door,  and  while  admitting  Langdon, 
prevented  the  attendant  from  seeing  into  the  room. 

As  the  door  closed  upon  the  new  comer,  Langdon 
perceived  Dorison,  and  started  back  in  surprise 
and  alarm. 

Cathcart  laid  his  hand  upon  Langdon's  shoulder 
saying: 

"You  are  my  man,  Harold  Farish." 

'  'Who  the  devil  are  you?' '  cried  Langdon  angrily. 

The  old  detective  pulled  off  his  wig  and  beard. 

"Simon  Cathcart.     You  know  me."    . 

As  he  declared  himself,  he  had  shifted  his  posi- 
tion, so  that  Langdon,  for  the  first  time,  saw  Fassett 
bound  in  his  chair. 

251 


252  THE  MAN  II'1 '1 "I'll  A    THUMB. 

"Oh!"  he  cried  in  a  rage.  "You  have  given 
me  away,  have  you?  This  is  what  your  independ- 
ence meant,  is  it?  Well,  Simon  Cathcart,  do  you 
know  what  this  man  is?  He  is  a — " 

"I  know  what  he  is  well  enough,"  interrupted 
the  old  man.  "I  know,  too,  that  I  have  the  leader 
of  the  new  gang  of  burglars,  when  I  have  you." 

"He  is  a  fine  one  to  'peach',"  growled  Langdon 
viciously.  "Send  me  up!  Send  me  up!  I'll  be 
out  some  time  to  make  hell  for  him." 

"You  will  never  be  out  in  time  to  do  that,"  said 
the  physician,  with  a  bitter  and  contemptuous  laugh. 

Something  in  the  tone  and  manner  of  the  physi- 
cian disconcerted  Landgon,  yet  he  strove  to  main- 
tain his  air  of  bravado. 

"You  can't  make  a  long  term  of  it."  he  said  to 
the  detective.  "You've  first  got  to  prove  I  was  in 
any  of  the  jobs." 

"The  charges  against  you  are  plenty,  so  are  the 
proofs,"  remarked  the  old  man.  "For  instance, 
you  can  be  charged  with  inciting  the  attempt  to 
murder  my  friend  here — John  Dorison." 

"Who?"  almost  screamed  Langdon.  "That  John 
Dorison?  He?" 

"Yes,"  calmly  replied  Cathcart,  'John  Dorison, 
son  of  Reuben." 

"My  G !"  he  exclaimed,  overwhelmed. 

"Yes,"  quietly  repeated  the  old  man.  "It  is  not 
a.  pleasant  thing  to  think  that  you  endeavored  to 
have  your  half-brother  killed,  is  it?" 

"What  can  this  mean? — Dudley?  Dorison?" 


A    SIGN  IT  IS  OF  EVIL   LIFE.  253 

"But  then,"  continued  Cathcart,  "that  is  not  so 
bad  as  assisting  in  the  murder  of  your  mother  and 
sister." 

"No,  no,  no!"  creid  Langdon,  frightened  and 
horrified.  "No,  not  that.  I  am  bad  enough,  but 
not  that.  Oh  Heavens,  no!  Not  so  bad  as  that." 

The  old  detective,  watching  Fassett  rather  than 
Langdon,  as  he  made  the  accusation,  saw  surprise 
steal  over  the  face  of  the  physician,  quickly  succeeded 
by  malicious  satisfaction,  as  if  he  had  divined  its 
purpose. 

"You  rascal!"  cried  Cathcart,  turning  viciously 
on  Langdon,  "what  do  you  mean  by  denying  com- 
plicity? Do  you  want  me  to  think  that,  being  inno- 
cent, you  kept  away  from  the  house  when  you  heard 
your  nearest  relatives  had  been  murdered?" 

"How  could  I  go  there?"  whined  Langdon. 
"To  do  so  was  to  give  myself  away." 

"You  mean,"  sternly  continued  Cathcart,  "you 
mean  your  mother  had  evidences  of  your  forgeries 
in  her  possession,  which  you  feared  had  fallen  into 
the  hands  of  the  police." 

Taken  by  surprise,  Langdon  confessed  by  his 
manner  that  the  detective  had  spoken  the  truth. 

"Well,"  said  Cathcart,  "you  were  right.  They 
did  fall  into  the  hands  of  the  police.  Here  they 
are,"  he  cpntinued,  as  he  drew  from  his  pocket 
the  package  he  had  taken  from  Fassett's  safe. 

"Here  are  the  forged  checks  and  notes  of  hand 
against  Reuben  Dorison,  the  payment  of  which 
through  your  poor  mother,  and  of  further  sums  to 


$54  THE  MAN  WITH  A   THUMB. 

prevent  your  prosecution,  ruined  Reuben  Dorison, 
your  father.  Those  will  send  you  up  for  another 
term.  You  can  be  kept  out  of  harm's  way  for 
many  years." 

Suddenly,  with  increased  violence  of  voice  and 
manner,  Cathcart  demanded: 

"If  you  did  not  kill  your  mother  and  sister,  who 
did?" 

"I  don't  know,"  answered  Langdon,  with  such 
anxious  earnestness  as  would  have  carried  belief 
with  his  words,  if  the  old  man  had  not  already 
known.  "I  don't  know.  I  did  not  dare  to  show 
myself,  I  was  afraid  I  would  be  charged  if  those 
papers  were  found.  I  didn't  even  dare  talk  about 
it,  though  I  have  tried  to  find  out." 

"Urn,"  growled  Cathcart,  as  if  he  did  not  believe  » 
him. 

There  was  silence  as  the  old  detective  fixedly 
gazed  upon  the  scamp. 

It  was  Fassett  who  broke  it. 

"Look  at  me,  Harold  Parish !"  he  cried,  his 
strong  face  convulsed  with  hatred,  malice,  and 
despair — fairly  devilish  in  its  aspect. 

"Look  at  me,"  he  repeated.  "Ididit.  I  killed 
your  mother  and  sister." 

"You!"  gasped  Langdon,  "You!     You!" 

"Yes,  I.  And  you  were  the  cause.  .Take  that 
to  your  false,  black  heart.  Of  all  human  devils  I 
have  known,  you  have  been  the  most  cruel  and 
heartless.  Since  I  have  waded  through  so  much 
blood,  I  wish  I  had  killed  you.  Ever  since  we  were 


A    SIGN  IT  IS   OF  EVIL   LIFE.  255 

students  together  you  have  been  my  evil  genius. 
When,  in  my  trouble,  I  took  you  for  a  friend  and 
adviser,  you  it  was  who  put  the  evil  thought  into  my 
head.  When  it  resulted  so  unexpectedly  fatal,  you 
it  was  who  suggested  concealment.  When  I  was 
climbing  to  fame  and  prosperity  here,  you  it  was 
who  pounced  upon  me  with  this  secret,  and  made 
me,  a  reputable  physician,  one  of  your  band  of  burg- 
lars and  assassins.  It  was  to  be  free  from  you — to 
be  your  master,  to  be  in  possession  of  the  proofs  of 
your  crimes  you  had  told  me  of  in  your  cups,  that 
led  me  into  murder.  But  as  usual  you  lied.  You 
said  your  sister  held  them,  and  not  believing  her, 
I  killed  her,  to  find  you  were  the  liar.  Yes  I  killed 
them.  And  by  all  that's  foul,  if  my  hands  were 
free,  I'd  kill  you  where  you  stand  now." 

Langdon  was  overwhelmed — he  was  stupefied  by 
the  revelation  hurled  at  him  with  a  malice  that  was 
fiendish. 

The  eyes  of  the  physician,  gleaming  with  foul 
hatred  and  murderous  desire,  held  him  fas- 
cinated. 

"This  is  awful!"  gasped  Langdon. 

Criminal  as  he  was,  stained  with  almost  every 
crime  as  his  hands  were,  he  had  a  perception  of 
depravity  from  which  even  he  recoiled. 

Dorison  staggered  to  his  feet  in  protest  against 
the  horror  of  the  scene. 

Even  the  officer  was  moved,  and  lifted  his  hands 
imploringly  to  Cathcart,  as  if  appealing  to  him  to 
end  it.  It  seemed  as  if  Fassett  had  been  stripped 


250  THE  MAN  WITH  A    THUMB. 

of  all  human  qualities  save  that  of  speech,  as  if  he 
had  become  a  wild  beast. 

The  old  detective's  purpose  had  been  accom- 
plished ;  he  had  obtained  confessions  from  both  ; 
he  had  gotten  all  there  was  to  be  known,  and  so  he 
brought  the  awful  scene  to  a  close. 

Pointing  to  Langdon  he  said  to  the  officer: 

"Take  that  man  at  once  to  Police  Headquarters — 
to  Captain  Lawton,  and  tell  him  that  you  bring  him 
the  leader  of  the  gang  of  burglars  who  have  bothered 
him  so  long.  Tell  him  to  lock  the  man  up  until  I 
can  come  to  him. " 

Dazed  and  stunned,  Langdon  obediently  turned 
to  follow  the  officer. 

"Stop,"  cried  Cathcart,  "Let  us  have  no  mis- 
takes." 

Taking  from  his  pocket  a  leathern  strap  he  buckled 
it  on  the  wrists  of  the  physician.  Then,  and  not 
until  then,  he  removed  the  handcuffs  and  placed 
them  on  Langdon,  his  hands  crossed  behind  his 
back. 

"Now  you  can  go,"  said  he,  "and  arriving  there 
send  two  men  at  once.  Hurry  you,  and  let  them 
hurry." 

As  the  officer  left  the  apartment  with  Langdon, 
Cathcart  sat  down  at  the  writing-table. 

Taking  out  a  memorandum  book  he  began  mak- 
ing entries  as  coolly  as  if  nothing  out  of  common 
had  occurred. 

So  calm,  so  composed,  so  inscrutable  was  he  that 
Porison,  wound  up  to  a  pitch  of  intense  excite- 


A    SIGN  IT  IS  OF  EVIL   LIFE.  257 

ment  and  nervousness,  felt  he  could  willingly  horse- 
whip him  for  his  imperturbability. 

Cathcart  turned  to  Fassett  abruptly. 

"You  know  I  am  going  to  lock  you  up.  Is  there 
anything  you  want  to  do  here?" 

The  question  startled  the  physician,  but  he  col- 
lected his  thoughts. 

"Not  here,"  he  replied  after  a  moment.  "There 
is  something  I  do  want  to  do.  Write!" 

Cathcart  did  not  comprehend  him. 

"Write  at  my  dictation,"  ordered  the  physician 
sternly. 

The  old  detective  wrote  the  names  of  a  number 
of  people,  with  their  addresses,  as  dictated  by  Fas- 
sett.  When  he  had  finished,  the  physician  said : 

"Those  are  the  names  of  patients  who  are  danger- 
ously ill.  They  are  likely  to  die  if  they  do  not 
receive  proper  medical  attendance.  Send  that  list 
to  Dr.  Allingham.  Let  him  attend  them;  he  is 
competent." 

Dorison  looked  upon  the  man  with  open-mouthed 
astonishment. 

"Great  Heavens!"  he  said  to  himself.  "Here 
is  a  man  who  by  his  own  confession  has  killed  three 
people  and  wishes  to  kill  a  fourth,  yet  at  such  a 
time  takes  the  precaution  to  save  the  lives  of  others." 

"Is  that  all,"  asked  Cathcart. 

"No;  I  want  to  write  a  letter  to  that  obstinate 
old  fool  Dr.  Roy,  with  whom  I  have  had  a  contro- 
versy on  heredity.  I  could  have  overcome  him  if  I 
could  have  cited  my  own  case  in  proof  of  my  con- 


258  THE  MAN  WITH  A    THUMB. 

tendon,  that  the  impulse  to  crime  is  an  hereditary 
tendency.  I  want  to  do  it  now.  Then  I  want  to 
make  my  will." 

"Is  this  bravado?"  asked  Dorison  in  thought. 
"Or  a  phase  of  human  nature  of  which  I  have 
had  no  conception?" 

"Loosen  my  hands  until  I  can  do  these  things  and 
I  will  thank  you.  I  will  attempt  no  harm  to  you." 

"I  am  not  afraid  you  will,"  said  Cathcart  as  he 
helped  the  physician  to  hobble  to  his  desk  with  the 
roller  top.  Having  seated  his  prisoner  he  loosened 
his  hands. 

Throwing  up  the  top,  the  doctor  began  to  write 
hastily.  From  time  to  time  he  suspended  his  work, 
leaned  back  in  his  chair  with  his  eyes  on  the  ceiling 
as  if  thinking  profoundly,  playing  with  the  locket 
dangling  from  his  watch-chain. 

There  was  no  agitation,  no  nervousness,  no 
trepidation.  He  could  not  have  written  more  com- 
posedly, nor  with  greater  concentration  of  mind, 
had  his  hands  been  free  from  blood  and  his  soul 
unstained  by  crime. 

He  wrote  a  long  time,  and  when  he  finished  he 
inclosed  the  sheets  he  had  filled  in  an  envelope, 
which  he  addressed  and  handed  to  Cathcart. 

"You  will  do  me  the  favor  to  hand  that  to  Dr. 
Roy.  He  can't  answer  that  argument.  Now  for 
the  will." 

He  thought  a  moment.  Now  it  was  he  betrayed 
an  agitation  he  had  not  previously  shown.  In  his 
nervousness  he  wrenched  the  locket  he  played  with 


A    SIGN  IT  IS  OF  EVIL   LIFE.  259 

from  his  watch-chain.  Apparently  unconscious 
of  his  act,  he  placed  it  in  his  mouth,  turning  it 
over  and  over  and  biting  it.  Finally  he  spat  it  out 
on  the  desk,  ruined. 

"Oh,  this  will  never  do,"  he  cried,  and  addressed 
himself  to  the  work  of  drafting  his  will.  It  was 
the  work  only  of  a  moment. 

When  he  had  finished  he  said: 

"You  two  must  witness  this — my  will.  It  is  brief. 
Let  me  read  it. 

'  'I,  Arthur  Fassett,  physician  and  surgeon, 
being  of  sound  mind  and  health,  but  in  the  face  of 
death  for  crime  committed,  do  will  and  bequeathe  all 
the  property,  whether  it  is  money,  stock,  bonds,  chat- 
tels, houses  or  real  estate  of  whatever  kind  of  which 
I  am  possessed  at  my  death,  to  the  Home  Hospital.' 

"I  have  no  relatives,"  he  added  bitterly.  "My 
family  have  all  died  either  in  prison  or  on  the  gal- 
lows. So  no  one  will  contest  the  will." 

The  two  signed  as  he  desired, — Cathcart  as  a 
matter  of  course ;  Dorison,  with  strange  emotions. 

Having  appended  his  own  name,  he  handed  this 
also  to  Cathcart. 

At  this  moment  there  was  a  stir  at  the  front  door. 
Cathcart  told  Dorison  to  admit  the  officers.  As 
they  entered  the  room  the  old  detective  said : 

"Handcuff  this  man:" 

"It  is  useless,"  said  the  physician.  "I  do  not 
intend  to  resist." 

"Perhaps,"  replied  Cathcart  dryly  and  cynically. 
"Do  as  I  tell  you,  officers." 


260  THE  MAN  WITH  A    Til  I '.MI!. 

The  physician  said  appealingly: 

"Let  me  sit  here  a  moment — only  a  moment — it 
will  not  be  for  long.  I  shall  not  detain  you  long — 
long — it  is — not — for — " 

Cathcart  sprang  to  him. 

The  physician's  chin  had  fallen  on  his  breast 
and  his  eyes  were  glazed  and  rolling. 

He  roused  up  with  an  effort. 

"It  is  near  the  end,"  he  said  chokingly.  "I  have 
taken  poison.  Death  grips  me.  In  forty  seconds 
I  will  be  dead.  I  had  it  all  ready  for  this  emer- 
gency." 

He  sank  immediately  into  a  stupor,  and  within 
the  time  he  had  predicted  his  heart  ceased  to  beat. 

Overcome  by  this  culmination  of  the  past  hour's 
excitement,  weakened  as  he  was  by  the  injury  he 
had  received,  Dorison  fainted. 

As  unconsciousness  closed  upon  him,  he  dimly 
heard  Cathcart  say: 

"He  has  cheated  the  gallows." 

When  Dorison  was  restored,  the  old  detective 
was  bathing  his  head.  Looking  about  him  he  saw 
the  physician  stretched  upon  the  floor,  calm  in  death. 


CHAPTER   XXIV. 

CATHCART    CLOSES    HIS    BOOKS. 

D ORISON  had  sustained  another  shock,  and  he 
was  carried  into  the  consulting  room.  The 
attendant,  still  sitting  at  the  door  and  unconscious 
of  the  tragedy  enacted  in  the  inner  room,  was  dis- 
patched for  brandy,  which,  being  administered 
to  Dorison,  restored  him  a  second  time. 

Cathcart  went  back  to  give  instructions  to  the 
officers.  Reappearing  he  said  to  Dorison : 

"Come.     We  will  go." 

Dorison  followed  him  out  into  the  street,  feeling 
as  if  he  had  escaped  from  a  charnel  house.  They 
walked  to  Fourth  Avenue,  indeed  to  the  Bowery 
before  either  spoke.  Then  Dorison  asked: 

"Where  did  he  get  the  poison?" 

"It  was  concealed  in  that  locket.  He  opened  it 
in  his  mouth.  I  ought  to  have  my  head  cuffed  for 
not  taking  precautions." 

"It  is  better  as  it  is,"  said  Dorison. 

They  walked  some  distance  before  Cathcart 
replied. 

"  Perhaps,"  he  said.     "  The  lesson  is  the  same. 

Crime   cannot     be   committed    without   detection. 

Well,  the  whole  search   is  over.     You  can  assume 

your  own  name.     It  is  cleared.     I  have  done  all 

261 


262  THE  MAX  //•/'/'//  ./    THUMB. 

I  set  out  to  do.  I  can  do  no  more.  I  close  the 
books. 

"  More  ?  "  cried  Dorison.  "  You've  done  all. 
You've  done  all  that  could  be  done.  You've  done 
everything.  It  is  wonderful." 

"Yes,"  replied  the  old  man  complacently.  "It 
is  pretty  fair.  It  will  show  these  New  York  people 
that  the  old  man  hasn't  lost  his  cunning — that 
he  can  work  in  New  York  as  well  as  in  the 
West." 

"  When  did  you  first  suspect  the  doctor  ?  " 

"  This  morning,  when  I  went  into  his  room  with 
you." 

"  What  !  "  cried  Dorison,  wholly  surprised. 
"  This  morning  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  replied  the  old  man.  "  Until  then  I  sus- 
pected Langdon.  I  saw  that  letter  from  Langdon 
and  the  partially  written  reply,  and  the  case  of  in- 
struments to  which  the  lancet  belonged.  But  that 
did  not  arouse  my  suspicions.  I  thought  perhaps 
Langdon  had  taken  the  lancet.  But  when  I  got 
that  package  from  the  safe,  the  whole  thing  burst 
upon  me  in  a  moment.  The  letters  and  lancet  took 
their  place  at  once  in  the  story,  and  I  acted  upon 
inspiration." 

Dorison  was  so  astonished  that  he  was  silent  for 
a  moment.  Then  he  asked  : 

"  Was  Langdon's  coming  an  accident  too  ?" 

"Purely  an  accident,  so  far  as  I  was  concerned. 
Probably  he  had  come  to  know  that  after  the  attack 
upon  you  last  night  you  were  brought  to  Dr.  Fassett, 


CATHCART  CLOSES  HIS  BOOKS.  263 

and  his  visit  of  this  morning  had  some  reference  to 
that  attack.  What,  I  cannot  determine." 

They  walked  along  again  in  silence. 

"  What  about  Pittston  ?  " 

"  He  is  shadowed  and  will  be  arrested  during  the 
day.  They  will  all  be  sent  up." 

As  they  turned  into  Bleecker  Street  from  the 
Bowery,  Cathcart  said  : 

"  What  is  to  be  further  done  to  set  you  right 
must  be  done  by  Mr.  Eustace.  He  can  do  it  by 
patronage  of  you.  Go  to  him  without  delay.  Give 
him  that  letter  I  gave  you  yesterday.  Tell  him  all 
that  has  occurred  to-day.  One  thing  more." 

They  had  stopped  at  the  corner  of  Mulberry 
Street,  and  he  took  from  his  pocket  the  package, 
from  which  he  drew  a  paper,  on  which  there  was 
writing  in  red  ink. 

"  Take  this,"  he  said.  "  It  is  better  with  you 
than  in  the  report  I  must  make,  since  it  has  not 
£ntered  into  the  murder  case.  Langdon  could  not 
have  known  of  its  existence  or  he  would  have  had 
it.  Fassett  could  not  have  known  its  meaning,  or, 
if  he  did,  did  not  care.  But  why  these  women, 
whose  fortunes  had  gotten  pretty  low,  didn't  use  it 
I  cannot  tell.  No  one  will  know  now.  Perhaps 
they  were  afraid  to  get  the  money.  It  belongs  to 
you  now,  by  every  right.  It  is  your  father's  order 
for  one  hundred  and  fifty  thousand  dollars.  The 
amount,  now  swollen  to  nearly  a  quarter  of  a  mil- 
lion, has  been  held  in  trust  by  Mr.  Eustace,  subject 
to  that  order,  for  many  years.  You  are  rich.  Give 


264  THE  MAN   WITH  A    THUMB. 

that  paper  to  Mr.  Eustace.  He  will  tell  you  all 
about  it.  I  am  going  to  Police  Headquarters  to 
write  my  report.  Our  relations  are  ended,  but  I 
hope  our  acquaintance  is  not." 

"  I  should  hope  not,  indeed,"  replied  Dorison, 
warmly. 

"Well,  go  to  Eustace  now.  Come  to  my  rooms 
to-morrow,  and  tell  me  about  your  interview  with 
him." 


CHAPTER    XXV. 

CONCLUSION. 

"PARLY  in  the  summer  of  1889,  the  Gallia 
\  j  arrived  at  the  port  of  New  York  after  a 
prosperous  voyage. 

On  its  passenger  list  was  this  entry : 

"  Mr.  and  Mrs.  John  Dorison,  two  children  and 
maid." 

An  old  gentleman,  tall  and  distinguished,  accom- 
panied by  a  younger  man,  middle-sized,  plump  and 
golden-haired,  stood  on  the  wharf  impatiently 
awaiting  the  throwing  up  of  the  gang-plank. 

When  the  plank  was  placed  in  position,  with  an 
agility  his  years  scarcely  warranted,  the  old  gentle- 
man rushed  up  and  embraced  a  lady,  who,  smiling 
through  glad  tears,  stood  awaiting  him,  beside  John 
Dorison,  by  whose  hand  that  of  the  old  gentleman 
was  warmly  shaken. 

The  lady,  presenting  a  lad  of  five  years  and  a 
baby  girl  of  two,  to  the  old  gentleman,  bade  them 
know  him  as  "  Grandpapa,"  and  also  to  the  younger 
gentleman,  who,  she  said,  was  "  Uncle  Charley." 

"  Ah  !  "  said  the  old  gentleman,  as  he  gazed 
proudly  on  the  lady,  "  my  dear,  you  were  beautiful 
as  Evelyn  Eustace,  but  as  Evelyn  Dorison  you  are 
lovely." 

And  young  Eustace  said  : 
265 


2 66  THE  MAN   WITH  A    THUMB. 

"And,  father,  I  think  John  is  to  be  complimented 
on  his  beauty  too." 

"  Happiness  and  sweet  content  of  mind  are  great 
beautifiers,  Charley  my  boy,"  replied  Dorison, 
laughingly. 

He  advanced  to  greet  an  old  man  with  white  hair, 
keen,  bright  and  restless  eyes,  who  presented  him- 
self with  a  contorted  face  which  Dorison  knew,  if 
on-lookers  did  not,  was  intended  for  a  smile  of 
gladness,  and  whose  hands  he  grasped  warmly, 
saying  that  his  home  coming  would  not  have  been 
complete  if  he  could  not  have  grasped  the  hand  of 
him  to  whom  he  owed,  the  possibility  of  his  happi- 
ness and  prosperity. 


THE    END. 


. 


